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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27546544">Holding Onto Hope</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/xXQueenofDragonsXx/pseuds/xXQueenofDragonsXx'>xXQueenofDragonsXx</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Walking Dead (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>95th Hunger Games - Freeform, Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Beth Greene, BAMF Carl Grimes, Carl Grimes Needs a Hug, Carl Grimes-centric, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Heavy Angst, Hunger Games, Hunger Games-Typical Death/Violence, Hurt Carl Grimes, I Made Myself Cry, Michonne is Carl's Mom, Minor Rick Grimes/Michonne, POV Carl Grimes, Panic Attacks, Parent Michonne (Walking Dead), Protective Daryl Dixon, Sad Carl Grimes</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 17:34:33</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>79,882</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27546544</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/xXQueenofDragonsXx/pseuds/xXQueenofDragonsXx</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>"Carl Grimes."</em>
</p><p>  <em>The spoken name echoes around the town square like the beating of drums, and Carl's blood runs ice cold in his veins. All of the air rushes out of his lungs in a sudden whoosh, and despite the summer heat, he feels as if someone had just poured a bucket of freezing cold water over his head, letting it seep into his bones and fixing him in place. His legs lock up and his heart, for a moment, seems to stop beating. The kids around him start glancing around, searching. Some of them look relieved while others -- the ones who knew him -- look sad.</em></p><p>  <em>Laura looks around, eyes scanning the crowd, a small frown beginning to pull at her lips. "Mr. Grimes?" She calls out again, her voice hesitant as she does so. The Peacekeepers start descending from the stage, and Carl can barely breathe as they begin making their way toward the crowd. Toward him.<em></em></em><br/><em><br/><em>---</em><br/></em><br/>Or a twelve year old Carl Grimes gets reaped for the 95th Hunger Games.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Rick Grimes/Michonne</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>32</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>62</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. The Reaping</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>This turned out better than I expected if I'm being honest...</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"What if I get picked?</p><p> </p><p>"Carl, it's your first year," his mom, Michonne Hawthorne-Grimes, says for what must've been the fifth time that day. Her voice is soft, soothing, and Carl tries to relax as she runs their old, broken-down hairbrush through his dark brown hair, nearing the same shade as her own. "Your name is only in there once. The odds that you'll be-" her voice breaks, and she stops mid-sentence. Carl watches through the mirror as she shakes her head, taking in a shuddering breath before saying: "You'll be alright, peanut."</p><p> </p><p>Carl can't help but frown, shifting uncomfortably in the rickety chair he's currently seated in. "But what about my friends? What if they get picked?"</p><p> </p><p>"Let's worry about you right now, okay?" Carl nods, not wanting to stress out his mom any more than she already is. She tries to hide it, but Carl can tell that his mom is not as confident as she forces herself to be -- the way that her voice keeps wobbling as she speaks is a dead giveaway to how she's really feeling. She runs the brush through his hair once more, smiling at him when he glances up at her. "There, you're all done. Now don't mess with your hair. You need to be as neat as possible for the reaping. Now go show your father."</p><p> </p><p>As if on cue, Carl can hear the sound of the front door creaking open, followed by his dad's heavy footsteps as he makes his way across their small house. There's a brief pause before Rick Grimes steps into the room he and his mom are in. He closes the door right as Carl's mom puts the hairbrush down, resting her hands on Carl's shoulders in a comforting gesture.</p><p> </p><p>"All done?" His dad asks. His voice is dripping with exhaustion despite the full night's sleep he had gotten the night before, and Carl can easily spy the tension rippling through the man's body. And Carl already knows quite well why his dad is as tense as he is. It doesn't take a lot of guessing, really. He's terrified for his son -- Carl had just turned twelve a week ago, which means he is about to have his first ever reaping, and his dad is worried about the possibility of him being picked. His mom is too, and Carl would be lying if he said he doesn't feel the same way.</p><p> </p><p>"Yes, all done," his mom says, glancing over at Rick as a strained smile covers her features. She leans up as her husband nears, planting a quick kiss on the man's cheek. Her pregnant belly is just barely visible from underneath her thin shirt, and it only serves as yet another reminder of the life now growing inside it. Carl's little brother or sister, someone he would learn to protect and cherish as they grow -- if they grow -- for all he knows, they could just end up like Andre and die from illness or something like that.</p><p> </p><p>The remainder of Carl's good mood evaporated instantly at the thought of his dead brother.</p><p> </p><p>Carl hasn't always been an only child. He used to have a little brother, Andre, who he had loved with all his heart. Even when his brother had been a wailing newborn in his crib, Carl remembers staring down at him with a grin on his face, daydreaming about all the things he would teach him. But unfortunately, the reaping isn't the only way that children died in the districts. When Andre was three -- and Carl was nine -- an illness had spread across District 11, a bad one too. Little Andre had been one of the few who had gotten ill, and despite everything that his parents tried, Andre had succumbed to the illness two days before his fourth birthday. His parents had been devastated, as had Carl, and he knew that if they lost another child, they might not be able to go on. </p><p> </p><p>But if he's reaped...</p><p> </p><p>He might not have much choice.</p><p> </p><p>His dad must've seen the look on his face, for he leans down, cupping Carl's face in his hands. "Hey," he says in a low voice, "it'll be okay, Carl."</p><p> </p><p>"You don't know that," he murmurs, his voice wobbling, eyes threatening to spill with tears. He reaches up to wipe at his face, trying to will the tears away. He can't be crying before the reaping. He'd done enough of that the night before, so he shouldn't be doing it now. </p><p> </p><p>"How old are you, Carl?" His dad asks, and Carl stares up at him with wide and confused eyes.</p><p> </p><p>"T-twelve," he whispers, sniffling slightly, inwardly cursing as a single tear starts rolling down his cheek. His dad brushes it away with his thumb, smiling softly at Carl.</p><p> </p><p>"And your name is in there one time," he coaxes, accidentally repeating what Carl's mother had just said moments before. But the words are surprisingly comforting to him despite it, "one time, against hundreds and hundreds - maybe even thousands - of other names. Trust me, son, you won't be picked."</p><p> </p><p>"But... what if..." he trailed off, voice watery and waving as he spoke. "What if..."</p><p> </p><p>"Don't think about that," his dad says, "if anyone's going to be picked, it's going to be someone with ten or more slips of paper. Not somebody with one or two slips, you'll be just fine, Carl. I <em>promise." </em></p><p> </p><p>Carl nods shakily, wiping once more at his eyes with one hand. His dad rises back to his feet, grabbing Carl by the hand, giving it a small squeeze before letting it go and making his way out into the main room, Carl and Michonne at his heels. Carl pulls at the scratchy green shirt he's wearing at the moment, not liking the way the fabric felt against his skin. But it's the fanciest and most proper thing they owned -- the most appropriate for the reaping. So, he sucks it up and follows his parents out the door.</p><p> </p><p>Shane is standing outside, leaning on the old, worn down fence surrounding the Grimes' property. It's one of the bigger houses in District 11, but not by much. Still, Carl knows better than to complain about it. He had it better than in District 12, at least.</p><p> </p><p>"Hey there, champ," Shane greets, sending Carl a small smile. It looks forced, for a good reason too, but Carl returns the smile either way. "Looking good. Is that your dad's old shirt?"</p><p> </p><p>"Yeah, it is." His dad responds for him. "Honestly, wish I could've given him something more comfortable, but..." he trails off, shrugging helplessly. </p><p> </p><p>"We better get going," his mom says in a soft voice, taking Carl's hand. His dad nods, his body immediately turning tense, and he places a hand on Carl's back as they begin to walk, Shane following a few moments later. They're all nervous, he can tell, although he knows that they would never admit it. Carl also knows he isn't much better off: his shoulders are tense, his movements stiff and slow, and his breathing is much quicker than it should be. </p><p> </p><p>It doesn't take long for them at all to reach the town. District 11 might be one of the larger Districts -- but still, the zone that his family lives in is small enough a place that you know everyone around you, whether you wanted to or not. Carl also knows the layout of the District quite well. Hell, it's practically ingrained into his mind at that point. Carl's steps grow more and more hesitant as they started nearing the town square, where the reaping is being held. He bites his lip, looking around nervously, spying a few of his classmates in the slowly growing crowd. They all look just as terrified as he does.</p><p> </p><p>The four of them join the large mass of people as they slowly move toward the town square, each and every one of them dressed in the nicest clothes they had on them. His dad pulls him to the side, wrapping him up in a tight hug. "You'll be okay," he whispers, but Carl's not sure whether he's saying this to comfort Carl or himself.</p><p> </p><p>His dad pulls away, and his mom is the next to wrap Carl up in a hug of her own, squeezing her son as close as she can with her pregnant belly. She presses a kiss to his forehead, brushing some of his hair away from his face and tucking it behind his ear, "you'll be alright, peanut. Now go find some of your friends and stick with them until the end of this, okay?"</p><p> </p><p>Carl nods, giving Shane a quick hug of his own before making his way to the cluster of kids who had begun to line up before the Peacekeepers. When he gets to the front of the line, his finger gets pricked by a needle of some sort, and he flinches away, biting back a cry of pain as his bloody fingerprint is then smudged onto a piece of paper with a list of names on it. As soon as the Peacekeeper lets go of his hand, he darts forward, making his way to the group of boys his age, all looking utterly terrified as they stand there, waiting for the ceremony to start.</p><p> </p><p>It doesn't take long at all for the 'festivities,' as the Capitol likes to call it, to begin. The moment that the clock strikes two, the mayor -- an old and thin woman whose name is Deana Monroe -- steps up to the podium to begin her yearly speech. She stands in front of the microphone positioned between two glass balls on pedestals, and in them are hundreds upon hundreds of small slips of paper. Carl can't remember what she ends up saying, zoning out after the first five minutes of the speech. He has the whole thing pretty much memorized, had since he was six or seven. So he knows what's going on, and he doesn't want to listen. </p><p> </p><p>The ceremony seems to drag on for hours, and Carl shrinks back more and more with every word, anxiety bubbling up inside him as he stares right at the two bowls onstage. It's the right bowl that he is more focused on, the boy's one. Carl repeats his parent's words in his head more and more with every second: his name is only in there once, only once, he won't be picked, not with the number of slips already in there. He'd be fine. Or at least, that's what he continues telling himself as it draws closer and closer for the names to be picked from the bowl. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I'm going to be fine; I won't be picked; I'm going to be okay...</em>
</p><p> </p><p>As soon as Deana finishes up with her speech, the District 11 escort, Laura Moon, walks up to the stage, her face surprisingly solemn for a member of the Capitol, who are usually quite excited about the Games: her long, blonde hair is suspended into a neat bun, and as of now, is currently wearing a pale lavender suit with pink roses woven into the fabric. She steps right up next to the mayor, taking the microphone in her hand and sweeping her gaze over the solemn crowd. Two of whom are about to be sentenced to a gruesome and (most likely) painful death. </p><p> </p><p>"Hello, District 11," she says in a monotone voice, and Carl can't help but feel relieved about the fact she wasn't going to use a false voice of excitement like most escorts did for the reapings. She apparently already knows the dirty truth of these Games: knows what they really are and not what the Capitol paints them out to be. "Happy Hunger Games," she continues on after a moment, her gaze once again sweeping over the crowd as she speaks. "And may the odds ever be in your favor."</p><p> </p><p>It's a phrase that Shane had always scoffed at back at the safety of their home. One that he always mocked and hated with a fiery passion. Carl knows that his parents hate it just as much as Shane does, but unlike him, they never dared to say a single word about it unless they knew for sure that they were all alone. None of them wanted the Capitol's wrath to be focused on them. </p><p> </p><p>Laura sticks her hand into the bowl, and a ripple of tension runs through the crowd. A cold trickle of fear goes down Carl's spine, and he waits with bated breath as she brings it up to her face. Carl doesn't recognize the girl that goes up; she's sixteen, maybe fifteen, and she strides up to the stage with a blank look on her face, and the cameras immediately zoom in on her. There's a heavy silence in the square, and Laura reaches in again, sifting her hand around for a moment before finally pulling it back out, a small, folded slip of paper wedged between her fingers. She moves back toward the microphone, slowly and carefully unfolding the piece of paper, staring at it for a second or two as she read it before leaning back in to announce the name to the audience.</p><p> </p><p>"Carl Grimes."</p><p> </p><p>The spoken name echoes around the town square like the beating of drums, and Carl's blood runs ice cold in his veins. All of the air rushes out of his lungs in a sudden whoosh, and despite the summer heat, he feels as if someone had just poured a bucket of freezing cold water over his head, letting it seep into his bones and fixing him in place. His legs lock up and his heart, for a moment, seems to stop beating. The kids around him start glancing around, searching. Some of them look relieved while others -- the ones who knew him -- look sad.</p><p> </p><p>Laura looks around, eyes scanning the crowd, a small frown beginning to pull at her lips. "Mr. Grimes?" She calls out again, her voice hesitant as she does so. The Peacekeepers start descending from the stage, and Carl can barely breathe as they begin making their way toward the crowd. Toward him.</p><p> </p><p>Carl forces his eyes to the ground, staring blankly at the tips of his shoes as he wills himself to start walking. Slowly but surely making his way toward the platform in a daze. Every step is like pure agony, and although he can't see them, he can feel the hundreds of eyes in the crowd all snap onto him, burning holes into his back as one of the Peacekeeper's grab him by the arm, pushing him forward and guiding him toward the stage. </p><p> </p><p>"No!" A loud scream pierces the air, and Carl whips his head around, eyes landing on his mom struggling in the hold of both Shane and his dad. "Carl!" she screams again, the pain in her voice nearly ripping his heart in two. All three of them have the most heartbroken expression on their faces, and Carl wants nothing more than to run over to them, hug them, and never let go. But then the Peacekeeper digs his nails into his shoulder, like a warning, and Carl forces himself to look away, trying to will back the tears that were beginning to well up in his eyes.</p><p> </p><p>His mother sobs loudly, and he can hear his father's gentle voice trying to calm her, Shane joining in a moment or two later, their voices echoing around the otherwise silent town square.</p><p> </p><p>The Peacekeeper guides him up the steps of the stage, which he climbs slowly. Laura moves over to him, a thinly veiled look of sadness crossing her face, taking him away from the Peacekeeper and escorts him to the spot beside her, next to the microphone. Her hand is resting on his shoulder in what he could only assume is meant to be a comforting gesture, but it doesn't do anything to calm the whirling thoughts that were now racing through his mind. He simply stares ahead, the hopelessness of the entire situation now beginning to settle in -- a mix of fear, grief, sadness, and acceptance circling through his mind like a broken record.</p><p> </p><p>"Ladies and gentlemen," Laura says to the quiet crowd, hell -- it isn't even that quiet. There is low, riotous muttering that goes through the people of District 11, one that always does when a tribute so young is chosen. They're angry, but they can't do a single goddamn thing about it. "I present to you District 11's tributes of the 95th Hunger Games!"</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Carl can't even remember the entire walk into the Justice Building. All he knows is that one moment he's on the stage having just been reaped, and the next, he's in a building of some sort, being guided by a Peacekeeper who's gripping his shoulder in an iron hold. His legs feel as if they were made of jelly, and every step he takes is a hundred times harder than the last. He's led into a room, and the Peacekeeper shoves him in before closing the door with a loud slam moments later. Carl stumbles slightly, and he collapses into the nearest chair he can find, not knowing how much longer he can stay standing.</p><p> </p><p>Carl curls in on himself almost instantly, pulling his arms around his legs and resting his head between them, trying to regain control of his breathing. His eyes start to water, and he doesn't bother wiping them away this time as the tears begin to trail down his cheeks at a rapid pace. It's almost as if a dam broke. As if his mind had finally caught up to the events that had just occurred.</p><p> </p><p>His name had been called.</p><p> </p><p>He had been reaped.</p><p> </p><p>He's going to be in the Hunger Games.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I'm going to die. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>He doesn't even register the sound of a door opening and closing until he hears his mom's hysterical voice calling out to him. Carl looks up right as his mom comes rushing toward him, enveloping him into the tightest hug she's ever given him. Carl doesn't hesitate to return the hug, hands reaching up and gripping her shirt as if it were his lifeline as he starts sobbing loudly into her chest.</p><p> </p><p>His dad joins in a few seconds later, wrapping his arms around the both of them as silent tears begin to trickle down his face. None of them choose to say anything for a long while, just holding him in their arms as the seconds slowly start to tick by. Carl leans into their touch, hiccuping. He closes his eyes, and he wonders if this is going to be the last time if he would ever even see his parents -- <em>oh god... </em></p><p> </p><p>"Carl," his dad finally manages to rasp out, pulling back from the hug to look Carl in the eyes, "Oh god, I'm... I'm so sorry, Carl. I-"</p><p> </p><p>"Dad..." His voice is hoarse and raspy from crying, enough so that Carl almost doesn't recognize it. His dad exhales slowly, rubbing a hand over his face before leaning forward and pressing a kiss to Carl's forehead.</p><p> </p><p>"Come home to us," his dad whispers, almost as if he believes that Carl has a chance. But Carl already knows that he doesn't. He's only twelve. His chances of winning this thing are pretty much nonexistent. </p><p> </p><p>"I don't want to go," he says in a hoarse voice, "I don't-"</p><p> </p><p>"We know," it's his mom who speaks this time, "we don't want you to either." She looks on the verge of bursting into tears once more -- Carl hopes that she doesn't because he knows that if she does, he'll be crying again too. </p><p> </p><p>"You're smart, Carl. You can win this. Play a smart game, stay on the down-low, and you'll make it home to us." Carl's dad says, a look of determination and pleading in his eyes. "You can do this."</p><p> </p><p>Carl wants to believes it.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>It's Shane who visits him next.</p><p> </p><p>His godfather walks into the room, his face solemn, and Carl doesn't even notice him coming in until the door is being slammed shut. When he does hear it, he looks up, and upon spotting Shane, slides out of his chair and barrels into him. He's practically clinging to him as he buries his face into his godfather's shirt, but Carl can't care less at the moment. Shane kneels down, wrapping his arms around Carl and resting his chin atop his head, leaving Carl to cry into his chest, running a hand through his hair as Carl tries to regain his composure once more.</p><p> </p><p>"Listen, champ," he says after a few moments, "the moment you get into the arena, you run. Grab a backpack if you can, but do <em> not  </em>go to the cornucopia. That will only get you killed." Shane's voice isn't as confident as his words are, but the advice he gives is logical. </p><p> </p><p>"I-I don't s-stand a chance o-out there," Carl responds wetly, pulling away and looking at his godfather with scared blue eyes. He averts his eyes seconds later, gnawing on his lip. "I'm g-going to d-die." <em>Like Andre. </em>The last two words remain unspoken, but he has a feeling that Shane knew quite well who he's thinking of.</p><p> </p><p>"No, you're not. You have better of a chance than others do."Shane says forcefully, taking Carl by the chin and making the boy look into his eyes. "You're small, young too, but that makes you less of a target. People are going to underestimate you, and that's a good thing." At Carl's confused look, he continues, his voice growing stronger with every word. "They think you'll die within the first day, probably. So the Careers won't go after you. But they don't know what kind of person you are. You're smart, you're fast, you can climb better and faster than anyone I know - if you play your cards right, you can come home."</p><p> </p><p>He has a point. Carl has always been the fastest climber among the kids in District 11. His mom also taught him a lot about the plants in the forest -- he knows which ones are poison and which ones aren't. Most of the Careers are gonna go after the older tributes -- the ones who pose more of a threat in their eyes. Carl's only twelve, and that would make them think of him as weak. They wouldn't go after him unless he's one of the last tributes remaining. It sounds crazy, but Shane's right. He might actually stand a chance.</p><p> </p><p>"You can win this, kiddo," Shane continues, his voice softer now. "I know you can, but you have to be <em>smart. </em>Don't be afraid to kill someone else. I know that you're the kind of kid who would start to cry when stepping on ants and spiders of all things-" Carl can't help but grin a little at this, "-but out there, it's kill or be killed. If you get your hands on a weapon and you run into another tribute, don't refuse to kill them for some noble reason, or else they <em>will </em>kill you."</p><p> </p><p>"I don't know if I can," Carl admits softly, "they're just people! Kids, like me!"</p><p> </p><p>"Who will be trying to kill you," Shane responds, his voice firm yet gentle, "it's either you or them."</p><p> </p><p>Carl nods weakly, reaching a hand up to wipe the tears from his face. "I love you, Shane."</p><p> </p><p>"I love you too, kiddo," Shane says, grinning down at him, though there's a tinge of sadness to it. Like he knows how low Carl's chances really are as well. "You're going to win this thing, I know it. You're gonna kick ass out there. And we'll be here for you when you come back."</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>As soon as Shane disappears out the door, Carl wipes his tears away, a new determination filling him.</p><p> </p><p>He isn't going to cry anymore. Crying means that he's given up, and although he knows how small his chances to win this thing are, he isn't giving up, or at least, not without putting up one hell of a fight. Not only that, but he isn't going to be seen as weak in front of all of Panem. Because he isn't weak. Besides, if he impresses them, then that means sponsors. And sponsors mean food, medicine, or anything that can help him get through the Games. If he starts crying in front of the cameras... Well, then no one will even bother sending him any sponsors. He already has his age against him, so he doesn't need one more thing there too.</p><p> </p><p>The Peacekeeper's come in a few minutes after Shane left to take Carl to the train, the flashing cameras along with their reporters had come with them -- snapping photos and shooting out questions faster than Carl even knew was possible. At this rate, he would be blinded before he even got to the Capitol. But the cameras don't relent, not even for a second. They kept on flashing and asking and flashing and asking, and it's honestly starting to drive him a little crazy. But he knows why it's happening. It would be their only chance for the audience to get a good look at the tributes close up until the later parts of the show, which includes them getting paraded around the Capitol like animals in a zoo along with the interviews sometime later. Carl is definitely not looking forward to any of this.</p><p> </p><p>As soon as they get onto the train, Carl allows himself to feel a smidge of relief when the reporter's questions and flashing cameras from outside becomes muffled through the train doors. But that relief is short lived as Laura begins hauling the two tributes every inch of the space because all Carl wants to do is be alone, but apparently, he can't have that. They could go into any of the compartments, Laura explained briefly, except for the conductor's, which is kind of a given. </p><p> </p><p>The train itself is much larger than anything else he's ever seen before in his entire life. Sure, he'd seen trains occasionally, the ones that bring supplies from other Districts and all that, but none of them were this large. The interior is decorated with blinding colors and all sorts of fancy things that Carl doesn't even know the names of -- there are a few elegant couches, framed artwork, beautifully woven rugs. The whole place is set up how he'd imagine the homes in the Capitol and wealthier Districts would be like, and hell, if he hadn't known any better, he wouldn't even know that this is a train.</p><p> </p><p>Hell, if he wasn't about to be sent to his death for the entertainment of the Capitol, he would have been <em> admiring  </em>it.</p><p> </p><p>The food is delicious and far better than anything he's ever tasted, but that's kind of expected seeing that he's from District 11, where most of the food they gather is taken to the Capitol while all they're left with is bread and leftovers. Laura is sitting across from him and the other tribute -- the girl whose name keeps escaping him -- with a look of immense discomfort on the blonde's face. She isn't trying to make any conversation with the two of them, to which he is thankful. </p><p> </p><p>There's a scowl marring the girl tribute's face, and she keeps staring at the food with the most disgusted expression he's ever seen. She's got one hand resting on the table, fingers tapping against the wood, while the other is twirling one of the butter knives she had picked up to cut her food. She's no doubt years older than him -- maybe around sixteen if he had to guess, with brown skin a few shades darker than his own and sharp, narrow features on a gaunt face. Dark brown curls fall down her back like a curtain, and there's something about her that makes Carl flinch back every time she moves or says something.</p><p> </p><p>He didn't like to admit it, but she scares him.</p><p> </p><p>Carl eats his food as quickly as possible, but is also careful to keep everything neat, his mother's insistence on manners ringing in his head. The thought of his mother sends a pang of sadness right through his heart. A meal like this would be enough to feed his entire family, and Shane, plus probably a few other families, and still have some to spare. Hell, along with Laura's constant chiding of not to eat too fast, Carl can almost pretend that this is an ordinary occurrence. That he's perfectly safe and isn't currently being carted off to his inevitable death -- that him eating this kind of meal isn't something that's never happened before, that he's just doing it for the sake of it.</p><p> </p><p>Keyword: almost.</p><p> </p><p>Because he knows that, deep down, no matter how much he tries ignoring it, that this is all just some sick game that he's yet another pawn in. He knows that the only reason he and the other tributes are even being taken care of in the first place is just because they were here to treat the little fantasy that the president has created for his people to believe in. After all, the tributes couldn't just be skin and bones when they arrive at the Capitol, now can they? That isn't good looking, nor is it beneficial for survival in the games. And while the Capitol couldn't care less about the tributes beyond entertainment, that didn't mean they could have the children passing out during the games or interviews just because of starvation. That would be poor entertainment. The Capitol people would hate that.</p><p> </p><p>Carl takes another bite of... whatever the hell it is that he's eating. Some kind of fish, by the looks of it. He pokes at it with the edge of his fork, staring at it for a few seconds before shrugging and shoveling it into his mouth. He's just about to take another bite when he hears the compartment door sliding open, which is accompanied by Laura's voice saying, "Well, well, well - look who finally decided to show up."</p><p> </p><p>There's an unmistakable mix of amusement, exasperation, and annoyance in her tone, Carl notes as he turns around, blinking in surprise upon spotting the figure in the doorway. Daryl Dixon, the winner of the 80th Hunger Games, stands there, an angry scowl on his face as he glares down at the three people sitting at the table. Carl instinctively shrinks away, eyes growing wide when the man's gaze lands on him. </p><p> </p><p>Daryl Dixon is a bit of a legend in Panem, one of the Capitol's favorites despite his surly attitude. He is the first victor that District 11's had in at least fifteen years. Carl hadn't been born at the time of his games. But despite that, he's watched clips of it before. One of Daryl's most memorable kills had been when he killed the whole career pack all on his own just by luring them into a web of traps he created and shooting each of them in the head with a crossbow. It's part of why the Capitol loves him so much. </p><p> </p><p>It's kind of weird seeing him this close up. Then again, Carl has only caught glimpses of the man before. Daryl Dixon doesn't like venturing into town much.</p><p> </p><p>Now that Daryl's here, Laura starts talking, chattering on in a sad voice over what was expected -- what would happen when they got to the Capitol, how they should start planning their strategies, and Carl tunes her out thirty seconds after she starts talking. Beside Carl, the girl tribute sits up, putting down her utensils and looking at Daryl with a frustrated look in her eyes as he sits down. Carl ducks his head down, slicing through the meat on his plate slowly. The table is much too tall for Carl to sit correctly, and his feet are hanging just a few centimeters above the floor.</p><p> </p><p>"Can you shut up for a second?" Daryl snaps to Laura, who scowls at his words but otherwise shuts her mouth. By the way the two of them act around one another, it's clear to Carl that they've had this conversation before. </p><p> </p><p>Daryl shakes his head, his dark blue gaze locking onto Carl and the girl tribute. He stares at them for a few seconds before straightening up, the scowl not once leaving his face. "You two, listen up," he says to them, his voice hoarse as he launches right into a long lecture about the Games, about the Capitol, about their training, about how to get the audience on their side. Carl leans in, setting the fork down and listening closely -- soaking up every word spoken like a sponge. He's going to need to know these things if he wants to have even the slightest chance of going home, after all.</p><p> </p><p>The girl tribute, on the other hand, seems to be getting more and more pissed off with every word that comes out of Daryl's mouth, "We shouldn't be having to do any of this!" She interrupts as soon as Daryl starts talking about the interviews and how to get the Capitol people to love them. "This is all so stupid! They're sending us to our deaths, and you want us to suck up to them?!" She's standing now, brown eyes dark with rage as her voice slowly begins to turn into a yell. </p><p> </p><p>"Well, if ya want to spend your interviews yellin' at the Capitol only t' not get any sponsors later in the game, go righ' ahead. See if I care." Daryl glowers, the angry scowl still plastered onto his face. "And let me tell you, that is not what ya wanna do. Sponsors will help you win your Games. If ya don't want to 'suck up t' the Capitol,' as you put it, then don't start cryin' when you run out of food or get an infection in the arena. Got it? Or do ya want to sulk the whole damn time? Cause let me tell ya, that's just gonna get you killed."</p><p> </p><p>The two of them engage in a brief staring contest, which ends with the girl tribute scowl deepening as she nods reluctantly -- everything after that settles with a little bit of difficulty but does so nonetheless. Daryl explains a bit more about what they want to do, and, once they finish eating, they watch the reapings. Carl feels the remainder of his hope for winning the games diminish as he watches each of them climb up onto the stage -- as expected, the ones from Districts 1, 2, and 4 have the strongest of the tributes, the ones more willing to kill. The careers. </p><p> </p><p>He's not going to stand a chance against them.</p><p> </p><p>After they watch the reapings, the train descends back into its uncomfortable silence, and nobody bothers breaking it. Laura takes up residence on the large, fluffy couch in the middle of the car, running a comb through her hair. The girl tribute -- whose name he finally learns is Elodie -- ends up throwing herself with a loud huff into the lavish chair in the corner of the room, still wielding that butter knife in between her fingers. Daryl disappears somewhere, and neither he nor Elodie bothers asking where.</p><p> </p><p>Carl has placed himself in the corner of one of the sitting room cars, knees pulled up to his chest with his chin resting atop them, staring blankly out the window as the landscape rushes by. He fiddles absently with a loose thread in the fabric of his pants, watching as the sky darkens outside. The scenery would have been calming, should've been in any other circumstance. And for a moment, Carl can pretend that he isn't about to be sent to his death as he lays nestled in the corner of the warm, brightly lit train car. A thin quilt, which Carl had found earlier, is wrapped tightly around his shoulders as he sits there, silently searching for some semblance of comfort as they draw nearer and nearer to the Capitol. To his death.</p><p> </p><p>Carl squeezes his eyes tightly shut, resting his head against the window as he tries to catch some sleep. But no matter how hard Carl tries to fall asleep, all he can see when he closes his eyes is the devastated face of his parents as he walked up to the stage -- up to his death. They know he stands no chance. Everyone in Panem does. The moment his name had been drawn from the reaping bowl, everyone had known what would happen in a few weeks. What his fate would end up being. Nobody had to say it -- they all just knew. </p><p> </p><p>Carl Grimes doesn't stand a chance.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Carl can't sleep.</p><p> </p><p>It's not because of nightmares or anything, nor was it because he's too terrified to sleep. It's nothing like that. Not at all. Carl just can't sleep. There's too much on his mind to even attempt sleeping. Too much to think about, too much to wonder, too much to...</p><p> </p><p>So he tosses and turns for what feels like, and probably is, at least a couple of hours before giving up on the concept entirely. He simply lies there for a minute or two before heaving a heavy sigh and getting up. He slips out into the hall, still dressed in his pajamas, and wanders the place for a little bit, not having a particular destination in mind, just exploring. After all, he knows that it's allowed. Laura did say that they were pretty much free to go wherever they'd like. So it's not like he's going to get in trouble if he gets caught.</p><p> </p><p>Somehow, after a few minutes of exploring the train, he finds himself standing right in front of the door leading to Daryl's compartment. After a few minutes of just standing there doing nothing, he reaches up a hand and, without even registering what he is even doing, knocks twice before taking a step back, running his fingers through his dark hair as he mulls over what he just did.</p><p> </p><p>When the door opens, Daryl is still dressed in the clothes he had been wearing earlier during dinner. He hadn't been sleeping much either, by the looks of it. The former victor stares down at Carl for a few long moments. "What?" He spits out finally, voice low and gruff.</p><p> </p><p>Carl stares back, unflinchingly -- an unexpected flare of courage now burning in his gut. "You think I'm going to die out there." He says flatly, crossing his arms.</p><p> </p><p>It's not a question. </p><p> </p><p>Both of them know it.</p><p> </p><p>The man grimaces, making a move to close the door. But Carl darts forward before he can shut it completely, shoving his foot in the doorway to stop him. He half expects Daryl to slam the door shut on him anyway and break his foot or something like that, but to his surprise, he doesn't.</p><p> </p><p>"Answer me," Carl pleads softly, staring up at Daryl through the crack in the door and letting a hint of his own fear seep into his voice.</p><p> </p><p>Daryl is hesitant as he opens the door up again, his face blank as he stares Carl down. "I've had bigger, smarter, and stronger tributes die out there." He says after a moment or two, a hint of sadness in his tone. "What makes you any different?"</p><p> </p><p>"I don't want to die," Carl says, crossing his arms.</p><p> </p><p>Daryl smiles ruefully at this, "I don't think many do."</p><p> </p><p>"Then teach me how to win," Carl says in response, determination coloring his tone, "I want to go back to my family, I want to meet my little brother or sister, I want to see my parents again, I want to live. So teach me how."</p><p> </p><p>Daryl stares at him for a few long moments before finally nodding. "I will."</p><p> </p><p>He nods, and Daryl steps to the side, opening the door a little wider and motioning for him to step inside.</p><p> </p><p>Carl does so without hesitation.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>"And here we are!" Laura says in a fake sing-song voice, pulling on the handle of one of the doors in the Remake Center. All of them having just arrived at the Capitol only a couple minutes before. "Carl, you go in this one." </p><p> </p><p>She then turns to look at him, blinking her eyes owlishly. "This is where your stylists will fix you up for the parade." She adds a few moments after spotting the look of pure confusion on his face. Carl had never seen this part on television before. Usually, the tributes in the past have just shown up looking all fresh and dressed up, though now he supposes there must have been some process they went through to look like that. A part of him wonders what they were going to do to him and Elodie for the parade. While District 11 is known for its orchards and farmland, the stylists seem to like switching it up every few years. Though honestly, he can't care less about what they put him in as long as he doesn't end up half naked. </p><p> </p><p>"Oh..." he mumbles meekly in response. He takes a step forward to peer into the room, glancing around. All there seems to be is one small table in the center of the room, covered in what looks to be a thin sheet of paper. Then his eyes stray to the strange, brightly colored liquids scattered on various shelves along the walls. He eyes them nervously, unsure of what they are, before glancing back at Laura, who gives him a reassuring half-smile before resting a hand on Elodie's shoulder and leading her over to the next door. The girl scowls at this but makes no move to shove the hand off her shoulder, which is surprising considering her attitude the day before.</p><p> </p><p>Maybe she did decide to listen to Daryl, after all.</p><p> </p><p>For some reason, he heavily doubts it.</p><p> </p><p>Hesitantly, Carl takes a small step inside the room, practically leaping into the air as the door snaps shut behind him with a loud clang. He shuffles his feet anxiously. There's nobody else in the room with him, so Carl simply seats himself on top of the empty table. His legs swing over the side of it, centimeters off the ground, and he twists his hands nervously, gnawing at his lip as the seconds slowly pass by, and, after a while, the ticking of a clock somewhere nearby starts to drive him a little crazy.</p><p> </p><p>He takes in a deep breath, puffing out his cheeks as he waits. He had some idea of what's supposed to be happening. Daryl had told him something like this would happen. They would dress him up for the parade and such: but the man hadn't really gone into the specifics. What they would do, how they would do it, things like that. Hell, Carl didn't even know if his stylist would be a man or a woman!</p><p> </p><p>Not only that, but what would they even be like? The only Capitol people he had met so far has been Laura, and even then, he's only really known her for like a day. Which isn't very reassuring, and with every thought, Carl finds himself doubting his chances more and more. </p><p> </p><p>Another minute passes by without disturbance, but then the heavy door is thrown open again -- and Carl looks up right as a trio of brightly colored (red, pink, and orange, to be specific) Capitol people walk into the room, arguing loudly amongst themselves. He stares at them for a few long moments, already hating their silly hairstyles and brightly colored outfits they were adorned in. He then feels a little guilty for feeling that way.</p><p> </p><p>The trio stops suddenly, heads swiveling up as if they sense his stare. Carl's eyes widen with surprise, and he ducks his head, a faint flush covering his cheeks at the fact he'd been caught staring. Mom always said it's rude to stare at people. But he can't really help it. Who even allows themselves to look like that<em> willingly? </em>Honestly, they remind him of birds, really really, <em>really </em>colorful birds happen to have the ability to talk. </p><p> </p><p>Still, he forces himself to look back at them, not quite meeting their gazes as he gives them a quick, nervous wave, "um... hi," he says softly, shuffling uncertainly in his seat. Is that the right thing to say? Daryl told him to be polite because then they'd like him more. But what do Capitol people even consider polite?</p><p> </p><p>It seems as though he didn't even have to worry about that in the end. In seconds, it's like they had laid eyes on a puppy or a kitten or something because then they all rush forward, a chorus of 'aw's' and 'isn't he just adorable' filling the room as they reach him, petting his hair and cooing as if he were some kind of pet. </p><p> </p><p>"Oh my! Aren't you just the sweetest little thing!"</p><p> </p><p>One of them, the one in pink, to be exact, reaches out to pinch his cheek, patting his hair before pulling back. Carl shifts uncomfortably, plastering a nervous smile onto his face as the trio of brightly colored Capitol people circles him, pulling him against each of them in turn to get a good look at him. </p><p> </p><p>He's starting to get a little tired of all the manhandling, to be honest.</p><p> </p><p>"Thank you," he says to them softly instead of voicing this thought, Daryl's words from the night before ringing in his head. <em>Don't argue, don't be rude. Suck up to them, make them like you. Don't complain about what they might put you in; just fuckin' wear it.  </em></p><p> </p><p>The three of them coo in a way that makes him inwardly cringe. He then eyes the items they were holding with uncertainty, not liking the sight of them. "What are those?" He asks in a small voice, widening his eyes nervously. He recognizes the tweezers in the orange one's hand, but the other ones... he has no clue what they are.</p><p> </p><p>"Oh, they're nothing to worry about, sweetie." The one in red assures him. Carl thinks the woman's name starts with an F. Frankie or something. He peers at the nametag on her shirt, unable to see it from under her hair, which is also red. Either way, she brushes a strand of his long hair out of his eyes, smiling kindly down at him, "they're going to help fix you right up. You'll be looking like a star after this!"</p><p> </p><p>Carl forces himself to beam up at them, watching in faint surprise as they begin with their cooing all over again. <em> This is easier than Daryl said it would be,  </em>he thinks, a little unsettled. </p><p> </p><p>He forces himself to be silent as the team plucks, pulls, and waxes all the hair off of him, smothering his skins with all sorts of different creams, lotions, and perfumes. He starts to feel a little lightheaded at that point from the smell but continues to be still as the trio continue on with their work. By the time they're finished, his nails were perfectly cut and shaped, not even a single speck of dirt remaining underneath them. His skin scrubbed clean, his hair entirely washed, (and softer than it's ever been seeing as they cleaned it with at least four different kinds of soaps, which is a little excessive if you ask him, but he has no idea what half of these products even do, so he didn't know for sure). It makes him feel a little like a girl, but that's not entirely a bad thing, so he stays quiet.</p><p> </p><p>"Now, you sit right here," the one in pink orders, patting the tabletop with a smile on her face, "Princess will be with you shortly."</p><p> </p><p>Then the trio disappeared back through the door, leaving Carl all alone in the room again. He sits there, rubbing his fingers over his arm and feeling the odd, stinging, smoothness of his skin where soft hair had once been. It felt a little weird, and a part of Carl wonders if this is why none of the tributes seem to have any hair on their bodies except for their head when they first enter the arena. Because the people of the Capitol had just ripped it all off. He shivers slightly, hugging his arms to his chest and heaving a small sigh as he rocks back and forth on the tabletop, trying to draw back a little bit of warmth back into his body. </p><p> </p><p>After a minute or two of this, the heavy door opened again with a slam, and he looked up as one woman came into the room. She's short for an adult, though much taller than Carl is, with brown skin that is a couple shades lighter than his own, purple hair, and a pair of goggles sitting atop her head. He eyes her uncertainly, gaze lingering on the pink fur jacket she is currently wearing. If she's his stylist, well... then Carl really doesn't like his chances with the whole parade thing. </p><p> </p><p>"Hello!" She chirps, placing a hand on her hip as she stops in front of him. "Carl, right?" At his tiny nod, she lets a wide grin spread across her face. "Well, of course, you are, don't know who'd else you would be. You can call me Princess, by the way." She shakes her head, reaching out a hand -- did she want him to shake it?</p><p> </p><p>Hesitantly, he shakes her hand, eyeing her warily as she takes a step back. "Princess?" He says, confused. "That's... that's not your actual name... is it?"</p><p> </p><p>"Nope!" Princess says with a grin, popping the 'P' and flicking a strand of her hair to the side. She cocks her head to the side, looking him up and down before nodding to herself. "White is definitely your color. Compliments your eyes. That sound good?"</p><p> </p><p>Carl blinks, baffled. "White? Doesn't that get dirty really quickly?"</p><p> </p><p>"Well, duh. But does that really matter? You'll only be wearing it once." Princess says, pulling Carl over to her. Suddenly, a sad expression falls over her face, taking him by surprise. "Listen, kid, I understand that you don't trust me. I mean, who would?" She laughs, but it sounds more bitter, if anything. "But let's be honest, you're already at a disadvantage with your age, so I'm here to help you in any way I can. I want to give you a fighting chance out there. And, believe it or not, this parade can do that."</p><p> </p><p>Carl frowns, not liking how truthful her words seem to be. He wants to hate her, wants to hate her for being from the Capitol -- for being part of the same people who tore him away from his home to die. But as her words go through his mind, he finds himself trusting her. Believing her. </p><p> </p><p>He looks up at her, "white sounds fine."</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Carl has to admit that, by the time Princess has finished up with him, her work is pretty damn impressive. </p><p> </p><p>In the time span of a few hours, she had put him into a shimmering white suit trimmed with gold that fitted him perfectly. Then Princess had attached some sort of cloak to it, a see-through one that glittered with every movement, no matter how small, and, still wanting to pay homage to his home district, had dotted the fabric with whirling vines and apple blossoms. The finishing touch was a flower crown that she had placed on his head at the last second. One that was neither too heavy or too light, so he didn't have to worry about it flying off during the parade. </p><p> </p><p>He almost doesn't recognize himself when he looks in the mirror once Princess is done. With all the fancy, glittering clothing and pretty colors, the boy in the suit that stares back at him is nothing like the shy, quiet sheriff's son from District 11. For a second, he can almost imagine that this is normal. It feels nice being in something so clean, so fancy. And while he hates himself for it, he finds that he likes it. </p><p> </p><p>Princess pulls him into the Amphitheater, which is filled with tributes wearing clothing in horribly bright colors that nearly blinds him and a roaring crowd that makes him wonder just how many people are here. As he sweeps his gaze over the large mass of people that are now swamping the City Circle, cheering and screaming and waving like mad, it looks like there are at least a thousand of them. Maybe more, and Carl finds himself shrinking back, a flicker of fear rising within him.</p><p> </p><p>Elodie comes in a few minutes later dressed in something similar to what Carl is now wearing: a pure white gown with vines of green climbing down a shimmering cloak of gold, the fabric a bright contrast against her dark skin. The sleeves are cut off at the shoulder, her hair coiled into tight ringlets and bouncing around her shoulders with a flower crown of her own placed atop her head and makeup to match. </p><p> </p><p>The two of them are ushered onto the chariots, a scowl still marring Elodie's face as she takes up a spot next to Carl. The chariot lurches forward a couple of minutes later, and Carl stumbles slightly, only just managing to catch himself on the edge of the cart. He rights himself quickly, relieved that no one else could see him yet. That would have been embarrassing. Elodie sends him an amused look but otherwise doesn't react.</p><p> </p><p>The horses pulling the chariot trotted into a long line behind the District 10 chariot, slowing down to a walk so the crowd would be able to see the two of them clearly. As they emerge into the sunlight, the noise that had sounded so loud before seemed to double in volume, nearly deafening him. He almost shrinks back behind Elodie from the sheer strength of it all, but then he remembers that the Capitol people liked a show. Being quiet and meek won't help him, so Carl quickly stops himself.</p><p> </p><p>So he smiles and waves, pushing down his nerves in favor of trying to make his best impression. It seems to work too -- as the audience screams, waves, and cheers as they pass by. The reaction takes him aback, and it only surprises him even more when flowers start landing on their chariot. Elodie seems less surprised, however. And she even picks up one of the roses and adds it to her flower crown before quickly doing the same to him. The girl's supposed change of heart about how to go about the Games surprises Carl. And he eyes her curiously, but he chooses not to say anything about it. Maybe she decided to take Daryl's advice after all.</p><p> </p><p>After a few minutes of the chariots being pulled around. Of the tributes waving and smiling at the audience that only seemed to scream louder with every second -- a man sitting on the balcony got up from his chair. The man was tall, with an eerie air of confidence surrounding him as he approaches the podium. It dawns on Carl almost as soon as the man steps up, adjusting the microphone so he can speak -- this is their president. The leader of the whole of Panem. </p><p> </p><p>A lot of people don't call him their president, though -- they call him the Governor. Why? Carl has no clue. All he knows is that he hates the man standing up there with a burning, fiery passion. The man was the reason so many children had been torn from their families. The reason that Carl was torn away from his own family, he was the cause of so many deaths and so much grief all throughout Panem that Carl could only feel hate for the man, no matter what his 'reasons' may or may not be.</p><p> </p><p>He is around the same age as Carl's father, if not a bit older. And despite all the bright colors and 'improvements' that all of the Capitol like to indulge themselves in, the Governor is probably the blandest person Carl has seen here so far. Graying brown hair, wrinkles around his eyes -- if Carl didn't know any better, he would have thought this man to be part of the Districts. He definitely looked the part. Carl just isn't sure whether to be disturbed by this or not. </p><p> </p><p>"Hello, everyone!" The Governor calls out, raising his hands up in a friendly gesture as a smile makes its way across his face. The smile looks fake, but the Capitol citizens don't seem to notice this, either that or they don't care, just screaming as loud as they can and nearly deafening Carl once more. "And welcome to the 95th annual Hunger Games! I present to you, your Tributes!"</p><p> </p><p>The whole crowd burst into cheers again, somehow screaming even louder than before. The chariots begin to be pulled back around the Circle -- down the long stretch of land that he knew would lead to the stables where the chariots had started from. As Carl looks around, he feels a pair of eyes on him -- not one of the people in the crowds -- and he glances up, catching the eye of the Governor, who is staring down at him and Elodie as the horses lead them away.</p><p> </p><p>No... Carl realizes after a second, a cold feeling of dread settling in his stomach. The Governor isn't staring at the two of them.</p><p> </p><p>He's only staring at Carl.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Later that night, after having yet another filling meal and being introduced to their new rooms, Carl practically collapses into the massive beds with hundreds of fluffy blankets. He ends up falling asleep almost instantly, only to be awoken rather violently when his covers are ripped away from his body -- exposing him to the cold -- and the mattress is tipped over, sending him toppling to the floor with a loud yelp. </p><p> </p><p>He scrambles to his feet, blue eyes wide as dinner plates. A hundred thoughts are running through his mind, all at once. <em>What's going on? Am I being attacked? Who is attacking me? </em>Elodie maybe -- she's the only tribute on the same level as him, so perhaps she decided to get rid of him early -- to thin the crowd.</p><p> </p><p>But as he looks around, he finds that none of that is true. Standing on the other side of the bed, a bunch of blankets scrunched up in his hand as he puts the mattress back in its place, is Daryl Dixon. He stares at Carl for a few long moments, face entirely blank, before straightening up -- an amused smirk spreading across his face.</p><p> </p><p>"Our first lesson," he says, dropping the blankets back onto the bed, <em>"always </em>be aware of your surroundings."</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Daryl then takes Carl over to his room, gives him a box filled to the brim with knives, brings out a black and yellow knife throwing board, and teaches him how to throw knives. It takes him a while to get the hang of it, but by the time that night is over, Carl manages to get three hits right in the middle.</p><p> </p><p>Daryl spends the next few hours before breakfast teaching him about the different kinds of plants -- which ones will kill him, which ones are safe to eat. He sends him back to his room at least half an hour before Laura comes to get him. And even if the two of them look totally exhausted in the morning, neither Laura nor Elodie seem to notice a single thing. That or they choose not to comment. </p><p> </p><p>Carl thinks it's the latter, at least for Laura.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The one thing that Daryl seems very insistent on is to not let the Careers know he's a threat -- because if he's seen as a threat, that makes him a target. So instead of practicing with the knives some more, Carl goes straight over to the rock-climbing station and climbs up and down until his arms are sore, and then, he heads over to the traps station and attempts to make a snare or two. </p><p> </p><p>The Careers stalk around the whole time, laughing at the other tribute's pitiful attempts to wield a weapon and intimidating them all by showing just how skilled they all were with those said weapons. One of them -- a haughty brown haired boy from District 2 -- shoves Carl into one of the weapon racks as he's passing by and starts shrieking with laughter as Carl struggles to get back to his feet without accidentally stabbing himself on any of the many blades. The other Careers snicker, while the tributes from the other Districts just look on angrily.</p><p> </p><p>All but one, however.</p><p> </p><p>One of the tributes from District 7, a blond boy at around fifteen or sixteen years old, runs forward -- ignoring his Districtmate yelling at him to stop and promptly shoves the laughing Career to the ground. </p><p> </p><p>"Hey!" The Career yells. "What the fuck is wrong with you?!"</p><p> </p><p>"Funny," the blond snarks, standing in front of Carl with his arms crossed, "I think I should be the one asking that. Seeing as you think humiliating a twelve-year-old is funny." </p><p> </p><p>The Career’s expression twists into an expression of rage. "Oh please," he spits, climbing up to his feet, "he was in my way. Plus, he's going to end up dying anyway. So why does it matter?"</p><p> </p><p>Oh, Carl does<em> not </em>want to be a part of this. He drags himself to his feet and begins limping away as the two boys start screaming at each other. In the end, a group of Peacekeepers has to come in to break the two apart. </p><p> </p><p>Things go on relatively normal after that, and Carl ends up running to the dining hall as soon as possible. Wanting to get away from the tension in the room for a little while. He chooses one of the tables in the far left corner of the room, his back to the wall so he could keep an eye on everyone. Elodie sits next to the girls of District 12 and 10. Having already struck up an alliance judging by the way they were chatting with one another.</p><p> </p><p>Carl doesn't dare approach them. He thinks about it, but upon remembering Daryl's words to keep out of the Career's focus, he stays where he is. The table the three girls sat at is in the middle of the room. This means that a lot of eyes are on them -- including the Careers. </p><p> </p><p>Carl looks up as a lunch tray is set down on the spot across from him. The blond boy from before is sitting across from him with a sheepish smile on his face as he meets Carl's eyes -- the boy's left eye is turning an ugly shade of purple, with another bruise forming along his jawline and neck. There's a bandage wrapped around his hand and another around his forehead. Carl can see spots of blood seeping through the white gauze already.</p><p> </p><p>"Hi!" The blond says with a grin, and Carl returns the gesture with a small, unsure smile, trying not to be confused but failing miserably. "I'm Ben." The boy -- Ben -- explains cheerfully. "Well, Benjamin. But you can call me Ben."</p><p> </p><p>"Carl..." he mumbles out in return after a few quiet seconds, ducking his head and watching Ben with wary eyes, tracing his every movement. He looks down and takes a bite of his chicken, chewing the meat slowly and trying to savor it for as long as he possibly could. He can feel Ben's stare on him as he eats, but he doesn't really know why. Either way, it's distracting. "What are you doing here?"</p><p> </p><p>"Wanted to say hi," Ben says with a shrug, "how are you, by the way?" </p><p> </p><p>Carl eyes the bruises on the teen's face pointedly before glancing over at the bandages. "Shouldn't I be the one asking <em>you </em>that?" </p><p> </p><p>Ben cringes, a sheepish grin spreading across his face moments later. "Meh, I've had worse. Plus, did you see what I did to Ron?"</p><p> </p><p>"Ron?" Carl echoes, brows furrowing in confusion.</p><p> </p><p>"The dumbass Career who pushed you earlier," Ben explains helpfully, noticing Carl's confusion. </p><p> </p><p>"Oh..." Carl peers over Ben's shoulders, eyes scouring over the tables until he set his sights on the scowling brunet sitting with the Careers. The brunet definitely looks worse than Ben does -- dark bruises covering his skin, a split lip, a swollen eye... "Doesn't the Capitol have something to heal cuts and stuff?" </p><p> </p><p>"Pretty sure they do," Ben says with a false cheeriness, taking a sip from his water, "but I'm ninety-nine percent sure that they're only going to give it to us before the interviews. So we can 'learn our lesson' for fighting before the Games." The boy rolls his eyes at this, putting down his glass to do air quotes. </p><p> </p><p>"That's stupid," Carl declares, but that's definitely something he could see the Capitol doing, "thank you, by the way... you didn't have to get yourself in trouble because of me..." He then eyes the bruises, unable to stop himself from cringing.</p><p> </p><p>"It's fine," Ben says, waving a hand dismissively, "Ron's an asshole. It was<em> totally </em>worth it. I was probably going to end up punching him eventually." He then wrinkles his nose. "And that's saying something. I usually hate violence."</p><p> </p><p>"You must <em>love </em>this then," Carl remarks, unable to help the sarcasm that dripped from his tone. Ben lets out a bark of laughter, grinning widely. But then, his expression falls slightly, and he sighs.</p><p> </p><p>"It's so stupid." He grumbles, stabbing at his food with a fork.</p><p> </p><p>"The Games?" Carl doesn't really know why he's asking him this. What else could Ben possibly be talking about?</p><p> </p><p>"The Games, the Capitol, everything." Ben gives a small shrug. "I never thought I'd be in this place."</p><p> </p><p>"I don't think anyone does," Carl says, smiling sadly.</p><p> </p><p>Ben shovels some sort of bread roll into his mouth. "Meh, Careers might," he points out, his voice muffled. Both Carl and Ben look over at the Career table, who are the only lively ones out of the tributes: chatting and laughing and joking around -- before looking back at one another. </p><p> </p><p>"True." Carl mumbles. </p><p> </p><p>Ben leans forward after a few seconds, "You know, me and Beth were looking for someone else to team up with..."</p><p> </p><p>Carl's head snaps up so fast he's surprised he doesn't hear it crack at all. He stares at Ben, searching for any sign of malice or deception in his kind face, but Ben looks completely genuine. He then peers behind Ben over to the blonde girl he had seen beside Ben during the parade sitting a few tables away. She looks up, catching his stare, and gives him a small wave. </p><p> </p><p>Carl looks away instantly, staring at Ben with wide, confused eyes. "You want... you want to team up with... with me?" </p><p> </p><p>"Mhm." Ben grins down at him, and that only makes him more confused. "I mean, if you're willing, of course. Some people like to go solo."</p><p> </p><p>"But... but why?" He's no one special. He's twelve-years-old, he's small, weak, and would be no help during the Games. Out of everyone here, why would these two older tributes want to team up with him of all people? Why not try their chances with the Careers or some other group like Elodie's?</p><p> </p><p>"Because I like you," Ben shrugs, "you seem pretty smart. I think we could help each other." The older boy then eyes him curiously. "So... what do you say? You in?"</p><p> </p><p>Carl doesn't even think about it -- he just nods, "I'm in."</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Beth is nice.</p><p> </p><p>She greets him and Ben after lunch, and they go through the stations together. Beth is pretty good with an axe and even tries to teach him how to use one, and while Carl isn't really good at it, that doesn't stop him from trying. </p><p> </p><p>She's also pretty good with plants. She knows which ones to use as medicines, which ones to eat, which ones are poisonous -- and she teaches Carl about the ones that aren't in District 11. In return, Carl tells her and Ben about the ones that aren't in District 7. He shows off his climbing skills a bit, too, and when he climbs down from the rock climbing wall, Beth reaches out and ruffles his hair, calling him a 'little monkey.'</p><p> </p><p>Beth is smart, she's nice, she's strong, she can win this thing. And honestly, a part of Carl hopes she will.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>Daryl wakes him up again the next night, and the next, and the next. He teaches him as much as he can in his quarters before the games start: about the games, the best strategies, the various arena tricks. He even manages to smuggle a bow up into the room one night, and Carl tries his luck with that.</p><p> </p><p>It's easier than knife throwing by a long shot. And by the time the morning rolls around, while Carl might not be a master at it, the fact that he can even land hits on the various target's that Daryl set up around the room is enough for him.</p><p> </p><p>When it comes time for assessment day, Daryl pulls Carl to the side.<em> Don't try too hard, </em>the man tells him, <em>get a low enough score that the Careers don't focus their attention on you, but make sure that you get a high enough one to still get sponsors.  </em></p><p> </p><p>Carl listens to him, and when he trots into that room with the Gamemakers up top, Carl uses the floor as an obstacle course, running and jumping and climbing and touching the floor as little as possible. He even tries his luck with the knives and throws a couple while running. He only manages to hit one target, but he's perfectly okay with that.</p><p> </p><p>The highest score is a ten, and the ones who get that score are, of course, the Careers. Elodie gets a nine -- but rather than looking happy about this, she just scowls. Ben gets a seven, Beth gains an eight. Carl manages to scrape up a six -- he honestly expected a lower score, but it's a pleasant surprise nonetheless. Daryl seems okay with it, too.</p><p> </p><p><em>"Not the worst, not the best. It's impressive for someone your age, but not enough to put the Career's sights on you." </em>Daryl seems almost hopeful as he says this -- as if he actually believes Carl could stand a chance.</p><p> </p><p>As time goes on, Carl begins to believe that too. </p><p> </p><p>If he plays his cards right, he could go home. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The interviews come a couple days later. Carl and Daryl spend the night before preparing for the questions and what he wants to do and say. How to sway the audience to his side, how to make them root for him. Carl absorbs as much of this information as he can. Filing most of it away in his mind to use for later.</p><p> </p><p>The next morning, Princess and Laura spend their time preparing him and Elodie as much as they are able to. Princess drags him into his room, and she and Daryl take turns in making him answer a series of questions off of notecards. They do this for hours, but Carl doesn't dare complain about it.</p><p> </p><p>When it comes time for the interview itself, Princess dresses him in an outfit similar to the one he wore at the parade. But this time, he's wearing a dark green suit with gold and brown accents that catch the light at certain angles. On top of his head, like before, is another flower crown. Elodie is wearing a gown of pale yellow, and instead of a flower crown, she wears a crown of gold.</p><p> </p><p>Most of the interviews seem to pass by quickly. The only ones that Carl pays any attention to are Ben's, Beth's, and Ron's. As Ben had guessed, the two teens had been given ointments for their wounds the night before the interview. Their skin is unblemished and unbruised, making it so anyone who hadn't seen the injuries themselves wouldn't even know they were ever there.</p><p> </p><p>Ron strides up with an air of confidence. He laughs and jokes with the audience in a voice that reeks of something rotten. There is something frightening -- something horrible -- glinting in his eyes too. Something that only the other tributes seem to notice. It scares Carl, but he refuses to let that show. The audience doesn't seem to notice at all -- the audience loves him.</p><p> </p><p>Beth sings to the audience -- her voice is soft and soothing, something that Carl could fall asleep to. She sings the Valley Song and one another that Carl can't recognize but is equally as beautiful, and the audience screams and cheers and hoots and hollers. The audience seems to love her even more than the Careers. Carl isn't sure if that's a good thing or not.</p><p> </p><p>Ben uses his humor to charm the audience. He trades jokes with the interviewer, he makes the audience laugh. Hell, he even manages to make some of the other tributes laugh. Not Ron, though. He just scowls and watches on bitterly. The audience seems to pick up on this hostility, and this only makes them love the two boys even more.</p><p> </p><p>When it's his turn to go up, Carl's stomach is in knots. But then he thinks of his parents, Shane, and his unborn little brother or sister, and he swallows down those nerves -- he needs to do this. The interviews are one of the most significant parts of the pre-games. If he wants sponsors, he needs to do this. </p><p> </p><p>So he walks up onto the stage, a shy smile on his face as the audience cheers and claps, only getting louder when he gives them a nervous wave. A part of him wonders if they ever get tired of the endless screaming all of them keep on doing. The interviewer -- a woman whose name Carl thinks is Sherry -- gets up as Carl walks over, meeting him halfway and resting a hand on his shoulder as she leads him to the plush, round chair in the middle of the stage. Carl sits down, clasping his hands in his laps as Sherry sits across from him.</p><p> </p><p>"Carl Grimes!" Sherry says with a bright smile, though Carl can catch a glimpse of something sad in it too. "Only twelve years old! Aren't you just a sweet little thing?" The audience yells their agreement, and a flush crosses over Carl's face.</p><p> </p><p>He ducks his head, letting his hair fall into his face. "Thank you, ma'am," he says softly. The audience seems to coo in unison. Sherry only smiles brighter. </p><p> </p><p>"Oh, there's no need to call me ma'am, sweetheart. We're all friends here - just call me Sherry." Carl resists the urge to wrinkle his nose when she calls him sweetheart. Only his mom called him that -- it feels weird now that someone else is doing it. </p><p> </p><p>He nods anyway. "O-oh! Okay. Sorry ma'am - I mean, Sherry!" He corrects himself quickly, and a ripple of laughter passes through the audience. He sees Daryl send him a thumbs up from his seat with the other mentors. So far, so good.</p><p> </p><p>Sherry lets out a laugh of her own, her voice light and airy. "You're a polite young man, aren't you, Carl?"</p><p> </p><p>"My mom and dad always said it was good to be polite," Carl answers, flattening his hands against his pants.</p><p> </p><p>Several members of the audience aww at him. "Well, your parents are absolutely correct!" Sherry exclaims, winking at the audience, her dark hair falling in waves down her shoulders. She turns back to Carl, her smile softening, "Speaking of which, rumor has it that your mother is pregnant, is that true?" </p><p> </p><p>Carl blinks in surprise as the audience gasps collectively. How the heck did Sherry, of all people, even know about that? Then he realizes: the cameras. All of the reapings were recorded, and it's not hard to see the baby bump on his mom's stomach. Still, looks over at Princess, his blue eyes wide and unsure. She gives him the smallest of nods, sending him a bright smile along with a thumbs up. </p><p> </p><p>"Yeah, she is," Carl says, looking back at Sherry, "I'm really excited!"</p><p> </p><p>"Well, I bet you are!" Sherry says with yet another wink. "Do you want a little brother or a little sister?"</p><p> </p><p>Carl's mind wanders over to Andre. To the gleeful little boy who used to climb all over Carl -- to the times where they chased each other around town, their dad often running after them to make sure they stayed out of trouble. He thinks of Andre, and his heart aches. "I kind of want a sister," he admits to the crowd, trying to push back the grief that started to unexpectedly form inside him, "but I'm not picky."</p><p> </p><p>"That's good," Sherry says, her smile widening. She leans in, and in a stage whisper, asks: "Now, on a different note, how are you liking the Capitol so far? What's your favorite part?"</p><p> </p><p>Carl plasters a broad smile onto his face. "Oh! It's really cool!" He exclaims, straightening up slightly, "There are so many pretty buildings, and they're all so tall and colorful! But if I had to choose a favorite..." he bit his lip, pretending to think about it, "...the chocolate tastes super duper good."</p><p> </p><p>As expected, Sherry throws back her head and laughs, and the audience lets out a few titters of their own. "That it does!" She agrees, "okay, on a different note. I'm a little curious about something, Carl. Your mentor is Daryl Dixon, correct?"</p><p> </p><p>Carl tilts his head at this, wondering why she was even asking. "Yeah, he is. Why?" </p><p> </p><p>Sherry leans forward, bumping her shoulder with his. "What do you think of him?" She questions. "He is quite a legend, after all."</p><p> </p><p>In the corner of his eye, he sees the camera pan over to Daryl, who promptly scowls and crosses his arms, glaring at anyone who dares to meet his eyes.</p><p> </p><p>Carl wonders what he should say. It's not like he can tell them that Daryl's been training him personally instead of just glowering at people in a way that he's infamous for. that would give away one of his advantages. After a moment, he starts to speak. "He's kind of scary." Carl admits, and the crowd laughs again, "But he's been really nice to me too! He's <em>super </em>cool!" He lets a little bit of childish wonder seep into his voice, and not all of it is fake. A part of him still can't believe he's being trained by a literal legend. </p><p> </p><p>Another ripple of laughter passes through the audience, along with even more awws. "That's good to know," Sherry says with a laugh of her own. Carl gives her a nervous grin, biting back the urge to start chewing on his lip. He's getting close to the end of the interview, no doubt. This means that Sherry is going to ask the bigger question soon. The one that will ultimately choose what the audience thinks of him. If he's worthy of their support or not. </p><p> </p><p>As expected, Sherry leans forward, wrapping her fingers around his hand, pulling it off of his lap and clasping it between hers. Her touch is surprisingly gentle, not like the previous interviewers he's seen in the past. Those ones had seemed horribly grabby -- Sherry isn't like that. It's almost motherly. He wants to be comforted by it, but all he can feel is fear as she starts to speak. </p><p> </p><p>"So tell us, Carl, what do you think of your chances in the games? I mean, no offense, but you're so young. How do you feel about the rest of the tributes being so much older than you?" Her tone is soft and sincere, curious, and the audience falls silent, and out of the corner of his eye, he can see some of the crowd leaning forward, all eagerly awaiting his answer.</p><p> </p><p>Carl's face falls slightly, but he keeps the smile on his face, even if it fades somewhat at the edges. "I mean... I'm not that strong - I won't lie about that. But I'm really fast! And if the other tributes can't catch me, then they can't kill me." </p><p> </p><p>The audience laughs and coos, and Sherry laughs. "Very true!" The buzzer goes off somewhere off stage, and Sherry looks up.</p><p> </p><p>"Now, it seems our time is up, unfortunately," Sherry holds his hands within hers, smiling down at him in such a way that makes her seem sincere. "I wish you luck, Carl Grimes. And may the odds be ever in your favor."</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em>The odds are not in his favor.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Daryl comes into his quarters again that night with quiet footsteps. Carl is already awake by then, staring blankly down at his hands. The mattress dips as Daryl takes a seat next to him. They sit there for a few long moments, none of them saying a single word. Finally, Daryl rests a hand on his shoulder, giving it a comforting squeeze. </p><p> </p><p>"Tomorrow..." he says finally, "when you get into the arena, I don't want you to try and grab a weapon from the cornucopia." When Carl looks up, he continues on. "That's what most are gonna try an' do. That's how most tributes die." </p><p> </p><p>Daryl's looking at him straight on now. "The moment that cannon goes off, you run as far as you can in the opposite direction. You run like hell. Y'hear me? Y'don't stop until you're far, far away. Grab a backpack if y'can, but don't actively try and get one."</p><p> </p><p>"What about weapons?" Carl asks softly, blue eyes wide. "Don't I need weapons?"</p><p> </p><p>"If you can grab one, get one." Daryl says, "but somethin' else - a branch or a rock'll do jus' fine. Stay in the trees, far away from other people - don't come down unless you need to." Carl already knows that he can't spend the entirety of the Games hiding. The Gamemakers will force him out eventually. Daryl probably knows this too, but he's right. Carl should stay hidden for as long as he can.</p><p> </p><p>"What if there aren't any trees?" If there weren't, that would be bad. While he doubts that a lack of trees will be a problem, it's always something to worry about. Daryl seems to sense this, for he gives Carl's shoulder another squeeze, breathing in heavily.</p><p> </p><p>"Then climb somethin' else. A rock, a boulder, a fucking cliff - I don't care. Just get to a place where the other tributes can't get you." Carl nods jerkily, taking in a shaky breath.</p><p> </p><p>"I'm scared..." he admits to Daryl, hunching his shoulders as he fights back the urge to cry.</p><p> </p><p>"You'd be stupid not to be," Daryl responds, giving his shoulder one last squeeze before climbing up to his feet. "Y'should get t'bed. Need t'be awake for tomorrow." </p><p> </p><p>So he does.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Princess squeezes him tightly the next morning, hugging him hard enough he's surprised she doesn't end up breaking his ribs. He's in his arena uniform now -- with black trousers, a thin dark green jacket, a longsleeved black shirt, and a pair of dark brown boots with thick soles. He holds his token -- a necklace his mother had given him with a katana carved into it -- tight to his chest, breathing heavily. Princess releases him with a sad smile, puts a hand on his shoulder, and leads him out of the room. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>"Give 'em hell, kid." Daryl says to him, looking him dead in the eye. "Make sure you win." </p><p> </p><p>"I will," he responds, and, before he can convince himself not to, wraps his arms around Daryl's waist in a tight hug of his own. </p><p> </p><p>After a moment of hesitation, Daryl hugs him back. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The glass tube that leads to the arena slides open. </p><p> </p><p>Carl takes a deep breath and steps inside.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. The Games -- Part I</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The glass tube slides shut almost as soon as he steps inside. Fear immediately starts blooming in his chest again, and Carl grinds his teeth together, trying to stamp it down as best he can. His face becomes determined, and he meets Daryl's eyes from through the glass. The man gives him the smallest of nods, saying something to him that he can't quite hear through the thick glass.</p><p> </p><p>He doesn't need to.</p><p> </p><p>Carl knows what he's saying.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> You can do this. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Carl nods at this, and he sees Princess smile at him for a moment from where she stands beside Daryl. She seems to be saying something as well -- he sees her mouth moving -- but before he can figure out what she's saying, he's already moving, the platform jolting upwards beneath his feet. Carl lets out a gasp of surprise at the sudden movement, stumbling and pressing his hand to the hard glass in an attempt to steady himself. </p><p> </p><p>He starts blinking rapidly as the sunlight pours into the tube, the dark shadows that had surrounded him a few seconds earlier end up turning into a bright blue sky that nearly blinds him. Carl takes in a deep breath of surprisingly humid air, his hand dropping back down to his side, and the glass tube previously circling him withdraws into the ground -- leaving him exposed to the elements. </p><p> </p><p>He takes a look around.</p><p> </p><p>The arena is stretched out before him, the cornucopia in the center, looming large and gray at least fifty or so yards away. The other twenty-three tributes are stationed around it in a giant circle, and Carl's eyes find where Beth and Ben stand almost instantly. They're far away -- not really on the opposite side as Carl is or else he wouldn't be able to see them, but still pretty far away -- Beth is on the left while Ben is on the right, and a part of Carl wonders if that had been done by the Gamemakers on purpose.</p><p> </p><p>Probably, they seemed to like separating District partners from what he's seen in former games. </p><p> </p><p>There are various packs scattered around the area surrounding the cornucopia. Carl can see weapons, food, clothing -- things that will end up helping the tributes survive in the long run. One specific bag is only a couple yards away from where Carl stands. It's tantalizingly close, and a part of Carl wonders if maybe he could go and grab it before running off. He glances to either side of him. Crap, he's got one of the Careers on his right. He looks to his left and spots the District 5 girl staring right at the pack he had been looking at with a determined and hungry look in her eyes. Okay, so no bag -- got it.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Forty-six seconds... </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Carl looks behind him as the clock -- the one projected in the sky right above the cornucopia, begins to count down the seconds. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Forty-five seconds... </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Forty-four... </em>
</p><p> </p><p>There are towering trees in the area surrounding the cornucopia -- much taller than any tree he's ever seen before -- with thick undergrowth he can hardly see through, looming mountains in the background, thick leaves and vines everywhere. It takes him a moment to realize what this is: a jungle, something he's only seen in pictures and read about in books.</p><p> </p><p>A jungle -- not the worst of things -- at least it isn't a winter wasteland like it had been a couple years ago. Nearly half of the tributes had been killed by the weather instead of each other. It had been one of the least popular games in quite a while, and the victor ended up being someone from District 10 who hid most of the time, only coming out when the Gamemakers forced his hand. At least here, he didn't have to worry about the cold killing him.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Thirty-one... </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Thirty... </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Carl takes another glance at the tributes around him -- many of them staring right at the cornucopia, many of them looking toward the trees. Each of them are getting more and more restless as the count ticks down. Carl is no exception. The first few hours of the Games are always the most violent -- the run for the cornucopia accompanied by the fights for the weapons and supplies surrounding it is almost always what clears out a lot of the tributes. That's why Daryl had told him to get the hell out of here the moment the count reaches zero. </p><p> </p><p>He breathes in slowly, shifting his feet around a little bit but otherwise not moving much. He didn't want to set off the explosives, after all. That would be a horrible way to go. It never happens a lot, but occasionally a tribute will end up tripping or something similar mere seconds before the count is complete. Carl remembers seeing it happen a few years ago when he was eight -- he had nightmares for weeks after that.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Twenty-four... </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Twenty-three... </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Carl's hand finds his mother's necklace, and he holds it tightly, closing his eyes and taking in another slow, deep breath. When he opens his eyes, he looks down the line of tributes. Elodie is five spots away from him and has her eyes fixed on something ahead of her, determination set on her face. She's going to go in for supplies -- of course she is. Carl only hopes she manages to make it past the bloodbath. They may not be friends, but that doesn't mean he wants her dead so early on.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Eleven... </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Carl thinks of his mom, of his dad, of Shane. He thinks of his unborn little brother or sister still safe and sound in their mother's stomach. He thinks of Daryl -- who spent so much time training him to make sure he has a fighting chance in the Games. Carl thinks of Laura and Princess, who, like Daryl, tried their hardest to help him survive. He thinks of his friends and family, the ones who are counting on him to come back home to them. </p><p> </p><p>Carl wants to see them again, he wants to go back home, he wants to meet his little brother or sister, and he wants to <em> live.  </em></p><p> </p><p>He glances back up at the clock, then his eyes find the bag that the girl from District 5 had been eyeing. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Ten... </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Nine... </em>
</p><p> </p><p>He wants to live.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Eight... </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Seven... </em>
</p><p> </p><p>And to do that, he needs food, water, and weapons. That backpack could have some of those things in it.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Six... </em>
</p><p> </p><p>He glances behind him at the jungle, weighing his options.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Five... </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Four... </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Three... </em>
</p><p> </p><p>He makes his decision.</p><p> </p><p>Carl readies himself, leaning forward on the balls of his feet, eyes pinned on that backpack.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Two... </em>
</p><p> </p><p>He's closer to it.</p><p> </p><p>He could get it.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> One... </em>
</p><p> </p><p>The cannon goes off, and the world seems to explode into movement. Carl launches himself right off his plate without a second's hesitation, pouring every ounce of speed he can muster in order to go faster and faster. He keeps his eyes on the backpack, not letting them stray from it for even a second.</p><p> </p><p>The wind is roaring in his ears as he moves. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees that the other tributes are running right toward the cornucopia, determined to get some sort of weapon before they leave. This only makes Carl run even faster, reaching out a hand as he nears the backpack -- getting closer and closer with each passing second.</p><p> </p><p>Somewhere ahead of him, the first person reaches the cornucopia, and that's when the screams start. Fights are erupting all around him -- steadily getting more violent as even more tributes get their hands on a weapon. He sees one girl get her hands on a machete, slitting the throat of a nearby boy that had just run past, the boy gurgles and falls to the ground in a heap as blood rapidly starts pouring from his neck. He sees one of the Careers tackle a kid from District 3 to the ground, snapping his neck with a horrifying amount of ease. He watches kids -- kids he knows -- from Districts 8, 9, and 10 fall, but that doesn't stop him, not once, not even for a second. </p><p> </p><p>Carl feels like he's just about to collapse when his fingers finally close around the dark backpack. He lifts it up without breaking a stride, using his fast momentum to swing it around over his shoulders, and keeps running. He can hear things rattling around inside as he moves -- that means there's something inside; that's good, that's very, VERY good!</p><p> </p><p>Carl changes direction as soon as he has it on his back, spinning around and running as fast as his feet can even carry him toward the jungle. He feels something whizz by his ear seconds later, and a large hunting knife embeds itself into the ground a few feet away from him. Carl's eyes go wide, and he urges his body to go even faster.</p><p> </p><p>There's a shout of rage, followed by the sound of rapid footsteps. Carl risks a glance behind him to see the girl from District 5 -- the one who had also been going for the backpack -- chasing after him with her frizzy red hair flying out behind her like a heroes cape -- only this hero is out to kill him, and she's gaining on him, fast. Carl whips his head back around, focusing his attention on the trees. <em> Just a little closer... </em></p><p> </p><p>He had just reached the first large tree and was about to dive into a cluster of bushes nearby when a hand closes around his left shoulder. Carl is jerked back, pain exploding throughout his shoulder, and is promptly shoved to the side, and he falls to the ground with a cry of both surprise and pain.</p><p> </p><p>He lands painfully onto his back, the backpack he wore thankfully cushioning his fall somewhat. Before he even realizes what's happening, there's a heavy weight bearing down on him. His hands shoot up as the angered face of the girl from District 5 swims into view -- holding a knife above her head, looking like a snake prepared to strike.</p><p> </p><p>Fear overcomes him like a tidal wave, and he lashes out, striking the girl in the stomach with a small fist. She grunts and doubles over, giving Carl the time to shove her off, scrabbling for his footing in the slippery grass. A hand reaches out, curling around his ankle, and Carl crashes back down to the ground with another cry of pain. </p><p> </p><p>The girl from District 5 lunges forward, raising her knife again, but Carl frees his foot from her grasp, striking her right in the face with his boot. She swears heavily, the knife falling out of her hands. Carl doesn't waste a second as he leaps forward, fingers curling around the blade that the girl had dropped.</p><p> </p><p>The girl's hand closes around his wrist, and Carl whips around right as she lunges onto him. They roll around, and Carl's back hits the ground. The girl clambers on top of him, and before Carl can do a single thing, a pair of hands are wrapping themselves around his throat, suffocating him.</p><p> </p><p>Carl tries to shove her off, slams his hand against her face and neck. He tries clawing at her, dragging his nails over his skin and leaving angry red marks -- she lets out a hiss of pain but doesn't budge. If anything, her grip gets even tighter than before. His vision begins to blur, pinpricks of black dancing in the corner of his eyes.</p><p> </p><p>His movements get even weaker by the moment -- he's going to pass out any second now. He's going to die, all because he decided to try his luck in grabbing a backpack instead of running away as Daryl and Shane told him to do. Christ, he is so goddamn stupid. </p><p> </p><p>A glimmer of something in the corner of his eye catches his attention -- the knife -- he must have dropped it when the girl had pinned him down. It's only a little ways away -- if he reaches out, then maybe he can grab it. An idea sprouts in Carl's muddled mind, and, gathering up all the energy he can, reaches underneath the girl's arm, grasping at the dirt around the knife. After a few tries, his fingers finally curl around the handle.</p><p> </p><p>He sees the girl's eyes widen moments too late when she catches sight of the knife. Her once bruising grip loosens, and Carl takes in a long, gasping breath -- letting the oxygen flood back into his lungs. Her eyes meet his, and she reaches out one of her hands -- going for the knife clasped in his own.</p><p> </p><p>Carl grins.</p><p> </p><p>Too late. </p><p> </p><p>Mustering up all the strength he possibly can, he gives a mighty shove, and the girl is sent face first right into the dirt. She attempts to scramble to her feet and manages to get onto her back, but before she can fully regain her bearings, Carl leaps right on top of her, a hand moving to her throat as she had done with him moments earlier. He sees her eyes widen with fear as he raises the knife, a plea forming on her lips.</p><p> </p><p>He doesn't hear it.</p><p> </p><p>Carl brings the knife down, burying it deep into her chest. The girl lets out a gurgle, eyes going wide with shock.</p><p> </p><p>He rips it out and swings down again.</p><p> </p><p>And again.</p><p> </p><p>And again.</p><p> </p><p>And again.</p><p> </p><p>Something wet splatters across his face and neck, but even then, Carl is too far gone to even care. He brings the knife down again.</p><p> </p><p>And again.</p><p> </p><p>And again.</p><p> </p><p>And again.</p><p> </p><p>Carl's face is nearly completely covered in red when he finishes, and when he looks closer, he can catch sight of a few broken chips of the girl's ribcage scattered across the ground. His hands are sticky with blood -- no, scrap that -- the whole front of his body is sticky with blood... her blood.</p><p> </p><p>He just...</p><p> </p><p>He just killed someone...</p><p> </p><p>Carl's grip on the knife loosens, and he leans back onto his knees, staring at the girl's body with wide blue eyes. Her chest is torn open, and he can see various stab wounds covering her neck, chest, and stomach. The stab wounds are so thick -- so close together. Making it appear as though an animal of some kind had torn her open instead of a twelve-year-old boy.</p><p> </p><p>Instead of him...</p><p> </p><p>Slowly, Carl gets up -- his limbs still regaining feeling in them. His legs buckle slightly beneath him, and he stumbles, but he manages to keep his balance. He glances around -- looks back at the cornucopia, which is now partially hidden by the undergrowth, hoping that no one had been close enough to hear or see the struggle that had gone on over here.</p><p> </p><p>Thankfully, it seems as though Carl had been lucky -- everyone who still remains back at the cornucopia are much too busy with killing one another to even care about what is going on within the trees. Carl takes in a shaky breath, looking back down at the dead body spread out at his feet. Her eyes are still open, he soon realizes, and her face is frozen into an expression of complete and utter fear -- because of him.</p><p> </p><p>In her final moments, she had been afraid of <em> him. </em></p><p> </p><p>Carl thinks of Shane right then, of his godfather's words after Carl had gotten reaped. How Carl shouldn't be afraid to kill anyone -- that refusing to do so would only get him killed. Carl hadn't really thought much of his words after Shane had said them. He supposed that a part of him had believed he could somehow get through the games without killing anyone. That clearly isn't the case anymore.</p><p> </p><p>He takes a shaky step towards some of the thicker underbrush. Then, he realizes that most of the screaming at the cornucopia has stopped. When Carl peers back through the bushes, he sees Ron swinging around a terrifyingly large axe, with a broad, maniacal smile on his face as he brings it down, decapitating a girl who his fellow Careers are holding down in front of him. As Carl looks around some more, he realizes that the Careers are the only ones who remain at the cornucopia. </p><p>
  
</p><p>His stomach rolls, and Carl falls backward, a choked sob on the verge of escaping his lips. He pushes himself back to his feet and shoves away the nausea threatening to overcome him. He's just about to start running away when he realizes that the knife he had used to kill the girl from District 5 is still lodged in the dead girl's chest. Carl walks toward the body, leaning down and wrapping his fingers around the handle, still slick with blood, and yanks it out of her flesh with a disgusting squelch. </p><p> </p><p>Even more blood splatters over his hands, but there is already so much blood covering him, so he pays it no mind. He straightens up, ignoring the nausea, fear, and horror still rolling around in his stomach, turns his back to the cornucopia and starts <em> running.  </em></p><p> </p><p>His heart remains in his throat the whole time, and the blood is rushing in his ears, but he keeps running. He runs and runs and runs and runs. He runs like Daryl told him too -- like hell. He runs further and further into the trees -- he runs until he can no longer see the sky above him, now covered by the thick canopy of trees. The sun is covered by the leaves, making it so much darker than it needs to be, but even then, he doesn't stop running.</p><p> </p><p>The low hanging branches and the thick undergrowth makes it difficult to run as fast as he can. He keeps stopping in order not to fall on his face, keeps stumbling over roots and bushes and old logs and uneven terrain. He's not moving all that quietly, either, but Carl, at the moment, can't care less about being quiet. All he knows is that he has to get as far away from the cornucopia -- and the other tributes -- as possible. </p><p> </p><p>So Carl runs and runs and runs -- he runs until his legs feel like fire beneath him, until he is on the verge of collapsing, and it's only when he nearly slams headfirst into a tree that Carl forces himself to stop.</p><p> </p><p>He lets out a choked gasp, dropping down onto the giant roots of the tree. His lungs burned fiercer than they ever have before, and every breath causes spikes of pain to go through his throat -- no doubt bruised from earlier when the girl from District 5 had been choking him. </p><p> </p><p>He wraps his arms around his legs, closing his eyes and trying to catch his breath after the long and tiring run. He had done it... Carl had made it out of the bloodbath, not only alive but with supplies and a weapon. Carl has no idea what's inside of the backpack he now carried, but he knows that there's something in there. He had been able to hear things moving around inside as he ran.</p><p> </p><p>He opens his eyes, looking down at the knife now clenched in his hand. He reaches out, digging the sharp point of the knife into the bark of the tree beside him in case he got ambushed. Then, he pulls the backpack off his shoulders, swinging it around and putting it on the ground in front of him. The dark fabric is coated with dirt and muck and is sticky with the District 5 girl's drying blood. Carl tries not to think of that as he lifts open the flap, loosening the corded opening so he can take a look inside. </p><p> </p><p>There's a canteen of water inside -- Carl checks, it's full. Along with a slightly crumpled packet of matches -- which will definitely come in handy later on, another knife -- smaller than the other one, maybe he can use it for throwing -- some rope, a bundle of cord, some apple slices, and nothing else. Carl has to stop himself from drinking too much of the water -- he doesn't know when or where he'd be able to refill his water, after all. And it's not like he has any water purification tablets either. He'll have to go look for a clean water source later on; he knows that, but it's best to hold that off for as long as he can. </p><p> </p><p>This isn't so bad... he's got food, water, weapons. He doubts that the apples will last for very long, but the fact that he even has them is enough. At least he won't have to go looking for food for another day or so. </p><p> </p><p>Carl wipes his hand onto the fabric of his pants, only just remembering the blood that stuck to his skin. He drags his cleanest palm over the sweaty skin of his face, his hand coming off coated with even more blood than before. God, he must look like a mess. Not only that, but the blood is now getting super uncomfortable, especially in the humid air of the jungle.</p><p> </p><p>He wonders if his parents had seen what he did to that girl. If they had seen the way that he had torn her chest open like some kind of animal. If they had seen the maniacal grin that he had given her moments before burying that knife into her chest. They probably had, as did everyone back at home. He wonders what they think of him after seeing that -- if they're all watching him now. </p><p> </p><p>He honestly doubts it -- at this point, the cameras are probably focused on some other tribute. Probably the Careers. Maybe someone else if they are doing something interesting enough to draw the attention of the camera. Carl glances up, squinting slightly. It takes him a moment, but then he sees it -- a lone camera nestled a few feet above him, watching him.</p><p> </p><p>Carl repacks his bag, swinging the thing back over his shoulders. He wrenches the knife out from its spot in the bark, holding it close to his chest as he gets up. He leaves the cluster of roots he had been sitting on and continues on his way. </p><p> </p><p>As the world begins to darken even more around him, Carl picks one of the many trees surrounding him and climbs it. He does so with relative ease -- having done this a hundred times before in the orchards of District 11. It's much easier here, actually. The tree trunks are broader, as are the branches. He has more things to grab onto, has more spaces to stand on. It's actually kind of fun, and he spends some time hopping around and giggling up a storm. He wonders how that must look to any possible watchers, a twelve-year-old boy covered in blood jumping around and laughing as he climbed a tree. Probably terrifying, to be honest. </p><p> </p><p>He doesn't really care. The people of the Capitol can go and fuck themselves.</p><p> </p><p>Halfway up the tree, when the slippery moss covering the trunk starts to hinder him, Carl grabs onto one of the vines hanging nearby. Carl starts pulling himself up using that, making sure to have a foot on the tree at all times. Carl keeps climbing until he can see the sky, until he's found a spot to rest concealed by the leaves and shadows. He curls up there, using the rope and vines to tie himself to the tree and ensuring that he doesn't fall. </p><p> </p><p>The bugs start to get really bad as things get even darker. They buzz around, mosquitos trying to bite Carl only to get stuck to the blood covering his skin. It's gross, and Carl keeps having to wipe them off. He knows that the Gamemakers probably didn't make the bugs fatal; that would be considered boring to the people watching, so he doesn't worry about dying from them. Still, they're really annoying, and the bites itch. Carl ends up having to pull up his hood to try and cover himself slightly. It doesn't really work, but he doesn't care.</p><p> </p><p>He just sits there, staring up at the sky, and he waits. </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>A few hours later, Carl had fallen into a slight doze only to be snapped right out of it as the sky overhead starts to glow, blocking his view of the stars above as the country's anthem began sounding throughout the arena. Carl has to cover his ears when that happens -- the anthem is much too loud for his liking, near deafening, honestly. It's not nearly as bad on television.</p><p> </p><p>He keeps his hands over his ears until the anthem ends, digging his fingernails into his palms as he waits to see which of the tributes ended up dying that day. The moment that it ends, a voice, one he's only heard coming from the television back home, seems to echo all around him. Carl moves his eyes to the sky, waiting with bated breath for the images to flash by.</p><p> </p><p>The first picture is the girl from District 3, and then the boy. Next is the boy from District 4, a Career. When the girl from District 5 appears in the sky, Carl feels his stomach drop. While the tributes are only being shown the images of the fallen, back at home, and all throughout Panem, everyone else would be watching clips of each death. This means that everyone -- his parents, Shane, his friends -- had just seen what he did to that girl if they hadn't already done so before.</p><p> </p><p>He doesn't know how to feel about that.</p><p> </p><p>Neither Ben nor Beth's faces appear in the sky, which leaves Carl slumping in relief. Both tributes from District's 8 and 9 are dead, and the boy from 10 is too. For 11, Elodie's face appears above -- she's gone then, probably during the bloodbath. Carl isn't sure how to feel about this. He hadn't really known her all that well, but she had been nice to him in the few interactions they had. He thinks of her family back at home, her parents and her many siblings, and feels a distant throb of sadness rise within him.</p><p> </p><p>None of the tributes from District 12 die that night.</p><p> </p><p><em> Ten down, </em> Carl finds himself thinking darkly, <em> thirteen more tributes between me and home. </em></p><p> </p><p>If he can even last that long.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>He lets himself sleep for most of the next day. He doesn't really worry too much about any of the tributes finding him; he's hidden well enough, surrounded by colossal branches and dark leaves. Even if a tribute does somehow manage to catch sight of him all the way up here, he doubts that they'll be able to climb all the way up to where he is without him spotting them first. </p><p> </p><p>He doesn't allow himself to totally fall asleep -- that would be stupid. Instead, Carl dozes, taking the occasional sip of water as the hours wear on. And even as his stomach begins to rumble and churn, begging for food, he doesn't take out any of the apple slices. Carl wants to save them. He can handle a little bit of hunger -- hell, to the people in District 11, going without food for days on end is nothing new. Carl can't even count the number of times he's gone hungry in his relatively short life.</p><p> </p><p>The thing is, sleeping during the daytime, especially on the first full day of the games, is quite a risk, but it's one that Carl is perfectly willing to take. He's tired beyond belief, and he's in a safe spot -- what are the chances that someone is even going to stumble upon him? After all, the Careers are most likely setting up a base camp around the cornucopia, and the other tributes are more likely than not just trying to find supplies. It's during the following days that he needs to be more careful.</p><p> </p><p>Only one person dies while he's dozing -- Carl practically jumps out of his skin when the cannon sounds, and if he hadn't tied the rope around him as tight as he did, Carl had no doubt that he would have fallen, but Carl doesn't fall, and it doesn't take long to get himself to relax after that, and later, sleep.</p><p> </p><p>He wakes up a second time when something snaps somewhere below him.</p><p> </p><p>Carl's eyes go wide, and he straightens up, looking around. He doesn't see anything other than the many leaves below him, the hundreds of trees surrounding him, and the bright sky above him. He then strains his ears, listening and waiting. A few minutes pass by, and Carl remains motionless for every second of them -- listening for any more signs of something moving beneath him.</p><p> </p><p>Another couple of minutes pass by with no signs of possible movement, and Carl finds himself relaxing.<em> It was probably a bird or something, </em> he tells himself, though he isn't sure if he believes it, <em> or some other animal, nothing to worry about. </em></p><p> </p><p>He'd only just closed his eyes again to try and go back to sleep when he hears it: something moving around in the undergrowth somewhere below his perch. </p><p> </p><p>There's something -- or someone -- down there.</p><p> </p><p>Carl darts upright, eyes going wide, one of his hands immediately going to the bloody knife he had placed in his pocket hours before.</p><p> </p><p>He curls his fingers around the handle and holds his breath.</p><p> </p><p>He hears it again.</p><p> </p><p>Something is moving around in the underbrush far below. Or maybe someone -- another tribute. These footsteps are much too clumsy, too unsure, to be an animal. They walk around on the ground yards underneath Carl -- stumbling and tripping on the various bushes and roots on the jungle floor. It's a person, then. This realization makes Carl's grip on his knife tighten even more.</p><p> </p><p>But then there's something... odd that Carl notices. Whoever this is, they don't seem to be moving much at all. Sure, they walk around, but the sounds of them walking never get any quieter -- they just... linger. Not only that, but after every few seconds, Carl can pick up the occasional grunt and moan, sounding inhumane to his ears. This only ends up confusing him even more.</p><p> </p><p>Curious, Carl unties the rope from around his waist, grabs his backpack, and starts to climb down. The thick foliage of the jungle blocks his view quite a bit, so he has to climb quite a way down before he can see the jungle floor again. He makes sure to be quiet as he descends, flinching somewhat every time the -- whatever it was -- gives out an exceptionally loud grunt or groan. </p><p> </p><p>Eventually, after a few more minutes of climbing, Carl finally reaches a part of the tree where he can actually see the ground instead of even more leaves. He stops climbing, eyes scouring around the area as he tries to pinpoint where the sound had been coming from. It takes him a couple of moments, but then his eyes rest on something vaguely humanoid standing in the shadows of a nearby tree.</p><p> </p><p>But... it's not a person. Or at least, not anymore.</p><p> </p><p>It stumbles around from its spot beneath the tree, making it so Carl can't get a good enough look to figure out what it is. But when it staggers into a small patch of sunlight that somehow managed to shine through the canopy above, Carl sees torn clothing, gray and rotted skin, and a skeletal, gaunt face with empty, white eyes: lifeless.</p><p> </p><p>Carl's eyes widen with horror at the sight of it. What even <em> is </em> that thing? It looks like a person, but there is <em> no way </em> that it's human. A mutt, maybe? He knows that the Capitol likes to create all sorts of mutts for the Hunger Games, genetically engineered apparently, so can this be one of them? But the mutts had always been more animal-like than they had humanoid. Perhaps the Gamemakers are changing things up a little bit. </p><p> </p><p>Either way, there is no way in hell that Carl is going down there while that <em> thing </em> wanders around. It doesn't look like it can cause very much harm -- it's clearly not that fast, and it's very frail too -- but this is the Hunger Games, so that doesn't mean anything. For all he knows, as soon as this thing sets sight on a tribute, it will just start running. Or maybe it's stronger than it looks and can easily overpower a tribute with little trouble. </p><p> </p><p>Carl doesn't want to be around to find out.</p><p> </p><p>He climbs back up the tree, peering up at the darkening sky when it comes into view. He rediscovers his former resting spot and remains there for the rest of the day and night -- he uses the rope to retie himself to the tree, puts his backpack into the same cluster of branches as before, and holds his knife close to his chest. </p><p> </p><p>Carl doesn't move a muscle as he sits there, listening as the thing stumbles around on the jungle floor. He doesn't really <em> want </em> to move either. So Carl sits there, watching absently as the world darkens around him. He pulls his hood up as the bugs start appearing again and is careful not to make a single noise to draw the creature's attention onto him. He doesn't know whether or not it can hear him from up here, but knowing the Gamemakers, they probably gave the thing genetically enhanced senses or something. Carl definitely wouldn't be surprised if they had. </p><p> </p><p>He sits there for hours and hours and hours. He sits there even when the sun slips out of sight, even when the stars start to come out. In the distance, he can see high rising mountains that tower high above. He sees a low hanging mist gradually making its way over the treetops, and the top of the fog ends up inches below his feet, obscuring his view of anything even a foot beneath him.</p><p> </p><p>He twists around as a scream sounds somewhere nearby, followed by a cannon a few tense minutes later. He tries not to think about what must have happened to whoever had screamed.</p><p> </p><p>To his surprise, the grunts and groans of the creature below him get fainter and fainter until he can't hear them any longer, attracted to the noise in the distance, no doubt. Or maybe the Gamemakers had called whatever it is back.</p><p> </p><p>Another few minutes pass, the sky lights up, and the anthem starts to play. Carl covers his ears once more.</p><p> </p><p>The first face that appears in the sky is the girl from District 12. When her face fades from view, her district partner's face is next. District 12 is now out of the game. Carl doesn't really know how to feel about this. The good part about this is that it means that he has two less competitors to have to worry about. But on the other hand, the tributes from District 12 had been really nice to him in the few interactions that they had -- he hopes that their ends had been quick.</p><p> </p><p>He thinks about the earlier scream, how the cannon had only sounded minutes later instead of right after, and he finds himself doubting it.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>The moment that the sun peaks across the sky the next day, Carl climbs down from the tree.</p><p> </p><p>He climbs down with slow and careful movements, keeping close to the trunk to keep the branches from rustling and making too much noise. He isn't sure if that creature from yesterday is still around or not. He's pretty sure that it isn't -- that it left sometime in the night -- but it's better to be safe than sorry, so he stays as quiet as possible as he descends the tree. Carl has to be smart. That's what Daryl had told him. Be smart -- that's how you win. </p><p> </p><p>His feet touch the ground, and Carl stumbles slightly before catching himself. He takes a look around, analyzing the area around him with wary eyes. Carl doesn't hear or see anything that causes any alarm. Only the trees and undergrowth that surrounds him. Just to be safe, he holds his knife close to his chest, his grip tightening on its handle -- still sticky with blood. But he doesn't care. The large hunting knife makes him feel safe -- well, <em> safer. </em></p><p> </p><p>He takes a step away from the shadows of the tree, and then another, and another. Carl hesitates as he ventures further and further from the tree, anxiously glancing around, half-expecting the creature from last night to appear out of the undergrowth surrounding him.</p><p> </p><p>It doesn't.</p><p> </p><p>So he walks, he ducks under a low hanging branch, letting out a steady exhale, and he walks. Carl tries to be as quiet as possible -- he doesn't want to attract any unwanted attention onto himself, be it the other tributes or the creature from before. He doesn't care which one it is; all he cares about is that he needs to stay quiet.</p><p> </p><p>So he does.</p><p> </p><p>He keeps an eye on the trees around him as he moves -- he doesn't want anyone dropping down on him, after all. It's happened to tributes in previous Games; Carl doesn't want it to happen to him too. But at the same time, he doubts that picking people off from the trees is any of the current surviving tribute's style. The only ones Carl can think of possibly doing that is Elodie and the two District 12 tributes, all of whom are already dead. The Career pack prefers more violent and more drawn-out deaths, and he's pretty sure that most of them don't even know how to climb anyway. Or at least, not well. </p><p> </p><p>Still, he has to be careful. That's what Daryl told him, what Shane and his parents said to do. Carl has to be vigilant. He can't let his guard down anytime soon; doing that will only get him killed. And, while he doubts that he's going to win this thing, Carl is not going to let himself die because he had decided to be stupid.</p><p> </p><p>So he moves slowly, cautiously, through the jungle. He avoids going in the thicker bushes, knowing they would make the most noise, and instead sticks to the more open areas -- which, granted, there aren't a lot of. </p><p> </p><p>He keeps going in that same direction for what feels like hours, but in reality, he knows that it has only been about fifty or so minutes -- around an hour. He has no specific destination in mind as he travels. Honestly, he's just going in the direction that he thinks is the opposite of the cornucopia. Although Carl is only around fifty percent sure that he is actually going in the opposite direction. For all he knows, he is only getting closer and closer to the cornucopia by the second. </p><p> </p><p>He hopes that isn't the case, but knowing his luck, it probably is. </p><p> </p><p>Still, he doesn't bother changing directions. Carl does make sure to keep quiet, though. If a tribute (or god forbid, the Career pack) is anywhere nearby, he doesn't want to accidentally grab their attention and lead them to him. So he continues onward, focusing all of his energy on keeping silent, alert, and, most importantly, alive. </p><p> </p><p>Okay, sure, he's being paranoid. Carl already knows that. But how can he not be? In an arena with a bunch of other kids who are out to kill him, he needs to be paranoid so he can stay alive. It's a very tiring process, though. He jumps at the slightest of sounds, be it the crunching of leaves from a nearby animal, the occasional birds chirping from high above, or something else entirely. He freezes at the smallest of movements, eyes darting around nervously until he finds out who the culprit is -- a rodent or a bird usually -- and it gets stressful very, very quick. </p><p> </p><p>Sometime later, around two hours after he had started walking, Carl stops in his tracks, tilting his head to the side and listening closely. He holds his breath, straining his ears, listening and waiting with wide eyes as he tries to figure out what exactly he is hearing. It's not a tribute -- that much is obvious. It doesn't seem like footsteps or anything that can signify human life. No, instead, it sounds something akin to the rippling of water.</p><p> </p><p>It takes him another moment to realize that's just what it is: the rippling of water. He's hearing a river or some other kind of water source.</p><p> </p><p>Carl can't help the grin that spreads over his features. A water source is just what he needs right now. He only has around half of his water left in his canteen, and he also really needs a bath. Like, <em> really </em>badly. He's still covered in the blood of the girl from District 5, along with dirt, dead bugs, and sweat. It makes him feel disgusting, and even if the river is cold as hell, he just wants to clean himself up a bit. </p><p> </p><p>Carl resists the urge to start running in the direction of the water. Instead, he walks, going a bit faster than before but walking all the same. Though unlike before, there's a bit of a pep in his step now. Along with a smile on his face. As the rippling of the water gets louder, he slows down slightly, straining his ears and listening closely for any signs of life nearby. </p><p> </p><p>He can't hear anything.</p><p> </p><p>Either way, he remains cautious. He ducks into a cluster of bushes, ignoring the way that the twigs and leaves brush up uncomfortably against his skin, and starts to do more of a crawl instead of a walk.</p><p> </p><p>Fortunately, he doesn't have to do this for long. The river comes into view after a few minutes, and Carl nearly sags in relief. </p><p> </p><p>He stops himself from running out, instead looking up and down the river, searching for any signs of tributes or mutts. This is the Hunger Games, after all. He needs to be as careful as possible. This isn't like the first day of the Games. The Career pack is probably done setting up their camp at this point: now they would be hunting.</p><p> </p><p>But as he looks up and down the river, he doesn't see a thing: not even the slightest of signs that any of the tributes could have been anywhere near here. It's just him at the river; that much is clear. </p><p> </p><p>Carl stands up from his spot in the bushes, carefully stepping out and wincing at every small noise the undergrowth makes as he emerges. He runs a hand through his hair in an attempt to clear the twigs and leaves out and ends up wincing in pain as his fingers get caught in a tangle. He drops his hand seconds later and takes another step toward the river. </p><p> </p><p>Carl then looks up and down the shore, slightly taken aback at just how large the river is. It's huge! Are rivers supposed to be this big? Is it just a jungle thing, or is it just something that the Gamemakers designed? Either way, it's kind of cool. Most river's that Carl's seen -- which, granted, isn't a lot -- aren't this big. Never this big. It looks as if someone had just taken an ordinary river, made it fifty times wider, sprinkled a couple of leaves and logs onto it, and just plopped it into the arena.</p><p> </p><p>Carl makes his way toward the water's edge, boots sinking slightly in the sand. He stops right where the water meets the sand: the water itself is dark and murky with some sort of green plant covering some of the surface and, even if he squints, Carl can't see a single thing below the surface. It's probably not very safe to drink without the water purification tablets then. That's a shame, but at least he knows where it is if he ever gets desperate enough. </p><p> </p><p>He hopes it doesn't have to come to that.</p><p> </p><p>After a second or two, Carl pulls off his jacket, cringing at the way the blood made it stick to his skin. He takes his backpack off next, putting it by his feet and draping his jacket over it. Then, Carl strips his shoes off and takes a step into the shallower part of the river. Almost instantly, he sees hundreds of tiny fish swim up to him, pressing against his ankles in a way that tickles his skin. He recognizes these kinds of fish from the rivers back in 11. They're harmless.</p><p> </p><p>Well, hopefully. Who knows how much the Gamemakers might have decided to alter the wildlife here. </p><p> </p><p>His stomach gives a sudden twist of pain, and Carl is abruptly reminded of just how hungry he now is. If he's remembering things correctly, the last time Carl had eaten had been the morning mere hours before the tributes had gone into the arena. And, while Carl knows that he still has those apple slices in his bag, he still wants to save those for later. Besides, maybe Carl can try his luck with fishing? There are definitely quite a few of them swimming at his feet. It shouldn't be too hard for him to catch one if he uses his knife.</p><p> </p><p>So Carl rolls up his sleeves, absently scratching at the bug bites on his arms, before adjusting his grip on the knife and moving down to his knees, peering at the tiny fish through narrowed eyes. Hopefully he doesn't end up stabbing his foot while trying to get one of them.</p><p> </p><p>It takes Carl much longer than he had expected to actually catch one of the fishes. They're much faster than they look. By the time that Carl finally manages to get one of the damned things with his knife, the sun has already begun to set -- the sky now dashed with various shades of pink, orange, yellow, purple, and blue.</p><p> </p><p>He lifts his knife from the water with slow movements, carefully pulling the dead fish from the blade. The thing is hardly the size of his palm, but it's better than nothing, he supposes. He gets up, heading back toward the backpack, which is still sitting in the sand with his jacket. He slips the green jacket back on, moving the fish from hand to hand to avoid dropping it. Then, he opens up his backpack, taking out the crumpled packet of matches from within. </p><p> </p><p>After that, he snaps a few branches off of a couple nearby bushes, gathering a few sticks as well -- anything that's remotely flammable, really. He stacks all that he had gathered into a small pile, reaching into the packet of matches and taking one out -- it takes him a couple of tries to get it right, but soon enough, he manages to get a tiny flame flickering around on the edge of the thing. He reaches out, holding the burning match to the top of the pile.</p><p> </p><p>It lights almost instantly, and Carl has to take a step back as the flames start leaping at his face. He then picks the fish back up, holding his knife to its body as he starts scaling it. He has to get this done quickly -- in a jungle with such large trees, there is a very, very low chance that any of the tributes will see the smoke coming from a fire, but that doesn't mean that it's impossible.</p><p> </p><p>The moment that Carl has the fish both scaled and cooked, he puts out the fire, swinging his backpack over his shoulders and making his way toward a nearby tree. He climbs up it quickly, settling down in a fork between a series of large branches halfway up. He has a good view of the river from where he is, and Carl is perfectly content as he starts nibbling on the fish, watching the sun setting from his spot in the tree. </p><p> </p><p>It's a beautiful sight, and a part of Carl wonders if it's even real -- if it ever had been at some point in the past. He likes to think that, yes, sunsets like this had existed once upon a time -- that maybe they still do. He wishes he could have seen one before getting reaped, but this one will have to do. Fake or not, it doesn't matter -- it's gorgeous all the same.</p><p> </p><p>He can almost imagine sitting here with his mom, his dad, and Shane -- maybe even Daryl. When Carl was little -- well, <em> littler </em>-- he remembers sitting outside with his parents, watching the sun set from the porch of their small house. They had stopped doing it a couple of years ago after Andre had died, but Carl hopes that when his little brother or sister is born, his parents will continue on with the tradition. With or without him.</p><p> </p><p><em> Well, that's certainly a depressing thought, </em>Carl thinks, taking another small bite of his fish. It isn't the best tasting thing in the world, nor is it all that big, but it's food, at least, and that's better than being hungry. Still, he would have preferred a little more flavor in it. And less bones -- or whatever the heck is inside the fish. Carl absently reaches into his backpack, pulling out the baggie of apple slices. He pulls one out and puts the rest back in the bag. He starts nibbling on that too -- trying to savor it for as long as possible.</p><p> </p><p>As he eats his meal, Carl's mind ends up drifting over to Beth and Ben. There hadn't been any cannons yet today -- though he doubts things will stay that way if the Gamemakers are anything like the years before, which they are -- but he can't help but wonder if they're okay, if they're together or not. </p><p> </p><p>He hopes that they are. </p><p> </p><p>Carl finishes up the apple slice and returns to the partly-eaten fish. He surveys the stream banks, noting the occasional fish that pops out from the surface -- they're fatter than the one he is currently eating but are situated more in the middle than they are by the shore. He can spy a couple of boulders lining the streambed, some nearing the areas where the larger fish jump out -- maybe Carl can go over there in the morning and try his luck with catching one of those ones.</p><p> </p><p>This would be a perfect place to set up a camp, Carl realizes suddenly. Sure, the water isn't drinkable, but if he gets his hands on water purification tablets and rations his water canteen correctly, that shouldn't be much of a problem. And not only that, but there's a food source too -- and with all the bushes and trees surrounding the place, there are hundreds of hiding spots to use if that kind of situation ever arises. </p><p> </p><p>Carl takes another small bite of his fish, weighing his options. He looks over the streambed consideringly. Should he stay at the river where he can risk running into another tribute in search of water but be able to have a place to find food with little trouble? Or should Carl leave now, abandon this food source to try his luck in finding a cleaner one? Both options have risks -- but which one has more?</p><p> </p><p>Carl shifts slightly, trying to get into a more comfortable position. He finishes the last few bites of the fish, wishing he had a little bit more. Carl needs food; that much is obvious. If he doesn't have food, he'll end up starving to death, or he'll be too weak to run away from another tribute and end up being killed because of it. But Carl also needs water, clean water -- he has some now, but that's not going to last for much longer. </p><p> </p><p>Can he boil the river water? Carl peers back at the river. He doesn't have anything to do that in -- but maybe he can try?</p><p> </p><p>If not, then what? Try and drink the water the way it is now -- he doesn't want to get sick. Plus, the Gamemakers would occasionally poison some of the water sources -- what if they did that with this one?</p><p> </p><p>Carl frowns, hugging his legs to his chest as he thinks about it.</p><p> </p><p>It seems that his decision had been made for him already, however, because a series of loud footsteps somewhere nearby suddenly make themselves heard over the rushing of the river. Carl freezes, eyes going wide as he digs his nails into the fabric of his pants. He then pushes his tongue up to the roof of his mouth, willing himself not to breathe too loudly as he peers through the gaps of the leaves, watching in alarm as a group of tributes emerge from the undergrowth a few feet away.</p><p> </p><p>His eyes scan over each of the tributes -- it's not the Career Pack, thank god. There are four of them -- the boy from District 5, the boy and girl from District 6, and the girl from District 10. Carl remembers seeing them during training, though he had never really talked to them much at all. They had seemed friendly enough every time -- angry and sad about being chosen for the games, but kind nonetheless -- despite this, Carl doesn't want to risk revealing himself to them. He doesn't know how they might react to seeing him. They might kill him, they might not, but Carl is not all that willing to try and find out.</p><p> </p><p>"Is that a river?" The boy from District 5 asks. Carl watches as he runs forward, approaching the riverbed with thinly-veiled eagerness.</p><p> </p><p>The girl from District 10 scoffs, "no, dumbass, it's a lush meadow --<em> of course, it's a fucking river!" </em></p><p> </p><p>The boy from District 6 rolls his eyes in a way that suggests that this isn't the first time something like this has happened. "Leave him alone, Evie." Despite the boy's words, he is smiling.</p><p> </p><p>The group approaches the river with great enthusiasm. One of them, the girl from 6, jumps into the river without hesitation. The rest -- except for the girl from 10 -- wade into the water while 10 watches on through narrowed eyes, not looking the least bit impressed as the other three start splashing around. She gets to work on refilling their waters, not at all bothered by how dirty the water is, and when she brings out a couple of water purification tablets that Carl understands why.</p><p> </p><p>"You guys do realize what might be in there, right?" She says idly, flicking a strand of dark hair out of her eyes and giving the water a cold glare. "Why would the Gamemakers put a river here and not make it dangerous somehow."</p><p> </p><p>"It's dangerous to drink without the tablets, which we have," the girl from 6 says calmly, peering down at the water now lapping at her waist, "plus, I think I see fish in here! And what are they gonna do -- eat me?"</p><p> </p><p>But no sooner had she said this, one of the dark lumps that Carl had first assumed were logs of some kind leaped right out of the water with frightening speed, and, before the girl from 6 can even realize what's happening, gleaming white teeth close around her waist. The girl lets out a short scream that is cut off as she is dragged into the water and disappears under the murky brown surface.</p><p> </p><p>"Sandra!" The boy from 6 calls out desperately. He attempts to run toward where his district partner had disappeared, but before he can, the boy from 5 grabs him around the waist and begins hauling him out of the water as more of the dark figures start swimming toward them. </p><p> </p><p>Carl watches in muted horror as the girl from 6 resurfaces suddenly, taking in a gasping breath of air. She lets out another pained scream before slipping back under the water that is now tainted with red. Through the gaps in the leaves, he can see the creatures in the water swarm the area where the girl had disappeared, splashing and swimming around. He sees a snout appear briefly, and he catches a small glimpse of a bloody arm hanging from its teeth before it darts back under again.</p><p> </p><p>Carl gags, on the verge of throwing up whatever remained of his earlier meal. He squeezes his eyes shut as the District 6 boy lets out a heartwrenching cry, followed by the sound of a cannon exploding overhead. The boy from 5 and the girl from 10 are talking to him, trying to comfort him, but Carl pays the group on the shore no mind. He feels dizzy. He can hardly even breathe, much less move.</p><p> </p><p>He can't get that image out of his head. Of the girl from 6 being pulled underwater, of her pain-filled screams as she was ripped apart by whatever those things are. He remembers seeing those creatures in the water, having at the time thought they had been logs or something of the like. He had been wrong, and that thought is followed by a horrible realization. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> That could have been me... </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Carl had been standing there, in that<em> exact same </em> river. He had been standing there, trying to catch one of those small fish swimming around his feet while those creatures had been floating around in the water, the nearest being only a couple of feet away. If he had gone any further into the river, if the creatures had been more hungry, or if he had stayed in there a little bit longer, he could have suffered the exact same fate the girl from 6 had. </p><p> </p><p>Or maybe even worse.</p><p> </p><p><em> Don't think about that, </em> he tells himself through his haze of shock and horror -- <em> you didn't die, you didn't get eaten. You're alive, and that's all that should matter right now. </em>He had narrowly avoided death once again, but it once again came at the cost of someone else's life. </p><p> </p><p>But this is the Hunger Games; death is inevitable here. </p><p> </p><p>"We should go," he hears the girl from District 10 say softly, "it's not safe here..."</p><p> </p><p>"What were those things?" The boy from 5 asks, his voice quiet but tainted with fear. </p><p> </p><p>And how could they not be scared after what had just occurred?</p><p> </p><p>The boy from 6 remains silent, and when Carl opens his eyes, he sees the boy kneeled down by the river's edge, staring blankly at the spot where his District partner had disappeared. They must have been close if her death had this much of an impact on him. Carl doesn't want to imagine the pain he must be feeling right now. It had to have been at least ten times worse than how Carl felt with Elodie. </p><p> </p><p>"Hey," the girl from 10 whispers to the boy, taking a step forward and grabbing him by the shoulder, "come on, let's go."</p><p> </p><p>The boy from 6 doesn't say a single word in response, but he does nod -- he climbs back up to his feet and turns away from the water with that same look of shock and horror painted onto his face. Carl watches as the group of three gathers up their things and disappears into the foliage where they had first appeared.</p><p> </p><p>Carl waits twenty minutes before he finally descends from his spot in the tree. It's pretty dark out now, but Carl doesn't want to sleep anywhere near this place, not after what he just witnessed. </p><p> </p><p>The moment that his feet touch the ground, he stumbles but manages to stay upright. His whole body is tensed up like a tightly coiled spring, and he moves his gaze away from the river, not wanting to look at it for a second longer. He sighs, adjusting the straps of his backpack and turning his back to the river, and beginning his trek back into the jungle. He'll find somewhere else to set up a camp, somewhere without murderous creatures in the water, someplace safer.</p><p> </p><p>Honestly, he doubts that he'll ever be completely safe in the arena. No one is. Today had reminded him of that. The image keeps replaying in his mind, of the District 6 girl being pulled under the water, and he can't wash it away no matter how hard he tries.</p><p> </p><p>He already knows if he manages to live through and win the games, that he's going to have nightmares about this day for years. That's something that Daryl mentioned to him, how even victors who won their games literal decades before still had nightmares about them. It hadn't made much sense to Carl before, but it does now.</p><p> </p><p>This is the Hunger Games. No one is safe, not even after they win it.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Carl climbs into a tree later that night, for once not bothering to swat away the many bugs that buzz around him. His limbs feel like jello by the time he settles down in a fork between two branches, too tired to climb any further. He's shaking violently, his body trembling so much he's surprised he doesn't end up falling right out from the tree.</p><p> </p><p>There is only one face in the sky that night, the girl from 6, and a part of Carl wonders if the Gamemakers will be doing something to change that tomorrow. The less violence there is, the more likely they are to do something drastic. </p><p> </p><p>Carl better be prepared.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>He doesn't sleep well that night. Or the next.</p><p> </p><p>But when he does manage to catch some sleep, he dreams of District 11.</p><p> </p><p>He dreams of his family, of his friends, of his home.</p><p> </p><p>He dreams of the orchards. He dreams of a sunny and blue sky, of climbing up into the trees with the other kids of District 11 and plucking the ripe fruits from the various branches. His parents and the other adults hang around below, passing up baskets to the children to gather the fruit in as they climbed higher and higher. </p><p> </p><p>In his dream, he can hear the children around him giggling and challenging one another to see who could climb the fastest or gather the most fruits in a specific amount of time. He can hear the adults joking around below as they tried to ignore the Peacekeepers watching from a few feet away, the birds singing from their perches high above, the rodents scuffling around in the grass. </p><p> </p><p>His fingers close around an apple hanging high up in the tree -- it's a big one, and his stomach begins to rumble at the sight of it, but he resists the urge to take a bite. Doing something like that can result in a quick death at the hands of the Peacekeepers watching nearby. He looks down, prepared to pass the apple to one of the kids below when, suddenly, the image changes. </p><p> </p><p>He's back in the arena, back at the bloodbath -- with the girl from 5 lying in a pool of blood at his feet, a large knife buried in her chest. Carl stumbles backward, taken by surprise. His back hits a warm body, and he spins around, his eyes meeting the pale green ones of the District 6 girl. But there are bite marks covering her entire body, her skin gray and rotten with clumps of her hair torn out. She lurches forward, teeth snapping as she lets out a low growl.</p><p> </p><p>Carl wakes up. </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>No one dies for the next three days. There are no cannons, no faces in the sky, no blood-curdling screams, nothing. </p><p> </p><p>It leaves Carl on edge, and he hardly sleeps, knowing that the crowds will no doubt be on edge with not one, not two, but three deathless days. It will only be a matter of time before the Gamemakers decide to do something about it.</p><p> </p><p>That something, unfortunately, ends up being directed his way.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>On the morning of the fourth day, Carl wakes up in a large tree with his mouth drier than a desert and a painful, gnawing hunger churning in the pit of his stomach. He eats one of the remaining apples he has left in his backpack -- he's been eating one a day to try and save them; there's only two left at this point -- and takes a small sip of what remains of his water. The water does nothing for his thirst or his hunger, and he knows that he's going to need to find more supplies, and <em> soon. </em></p><p> </p><p>He doesn't know if he can last much longer with how he's currently going.</p><p> </p><p>He doesn't know if he wants to.</p><p> </p><p>It's a grim realization. Horribly so. Carl misses his family, and he wants to see them again, but at the same time, he knows that even if he does manage to get out of this alive, he won't be able to be the same child his parents knew, loved, and raised. He knows that he's going to be haunted by nightmares: of the District 5 girl's dead body lying beneath him, of the girl from 6 being torn apart. He'll be putting his little sibling in danger too. Relatives of victors are almost always reaped if they are of age. </p><p> </p><p>He doesn't want that. He doesn't want his little brother or sister to be forced into the Games like he has.</p><p> </p><p>He doesn't want to die, but he knows the costs of living all too well.</p><p> </p><p>Carl sits in the tree for a few long minutes after waking up before finally forcing himself to start the climb down. His fingers are bloody and torn from all the climbing he'd been doing in the past week (Jesus, had he really been in here for that long?) The corner of his mouth is torn in from how much he's been chewing on it, and his head won't stop throbbing for even a second -- it hurts every time he moves -- it burns every time he tries to wet his lips -- and it only seems to get worse as the seconds pass. </p><p> </p><p>He can only imagine how he must look to the cameras: covered in all sorts of dirt, leaves, mud, and blood. Possibly some dead bugs too. His hair is tangled and messy, he's covered in bug bites and scratches, and he probably looks like some wild child who has never seen the light of civilization even once. Then again, a lot of tributes look that way in the Games. </p><p> </p><p>Still, he doubts that he's getting any sponsors while looking like this.</p><p> </p><p>Carl reaches the ground, stumbling slightly as his feet land on the slippery grass. He hefts his backpack up slightly, digging a hand into his pocket before pulling out his knife. His fingers tighten around the handle, and he resists the urge to bite his lip, throwing the tree he had hidden out in the night before one last look before walking off into the woods. Once again, with no particular destination in mind. </p><p> </p><p>He just needs to walk.</p><p> </p><p>That's something Daryl had told him: <em> keep moving, don't stay in one place too long. </em>But Carl doesn't know how long he can keep going. Carl is hungry, thirsty, tired, and just wants to go home. Carl misses his bed, he misses his parent's hugs, he even misses it when Shane used to ruffle his hair and call him 'champ,' something he used to despise up until now.</p><p> </p><p>The thought of his family sends a fresh wave of pain rushing through him, and Carl has to blink away the tears burning at the corners of his eyes. He averts his eyes down to his feet, focusing his attention on trying to ignore the burning ache emanating from his fingers. He doesn't really remember when exactly his fingers started getting so bloody -- when the skin began to tear -- but what he does know is that all of them are just mangled beyond belief. </p><p> </p><p>They are covered in cuts and scratches from the bark, small gouges from the countless splinters that Carl had to pull out -- which had been a very, very painful process. The scabs keep tearing -- keep opening up -- and the amount of climbing he's had to do never helped matters at all. He's kind of worried about some of the cuts getting infected, but he doesn't have the supplies needed to clean the cuts. Not even enough water.</p><p> </p><p>Carl swallows down the lump in his throat and moves his eyes away from his fingers. He just wants to forget about his mangled hands for a little while, or at least, as much as he can with how painful they are. Instead, Carl focuses his attention on the canopy above him -- on the chirping of birds high above who are blissfully unaware of the death arena they are in. He wonders what will happen to them after the Games are over.</p><p> </p><p>Probably nothing good.</p><p> </p><p>He makes sure to keep his ears strained and his eyes focused -- Carl doesn't want a tribute sneaking up on him, after all. So he moves slowly, carefully, jumping at every small noise and wincing at every broken branch and crunch of leaves beneath his feet. It's hard to tell how long he walks for -- probably a couple of hours, but by the time the sun is high in the sky, the pounding in his head becomes next to unbearable, and he has to stop to rest -- even if it's only for a few minutes.</p><p> </p><p>Carl shakes his head, regretting it almost instantly as the pain intensifies. He finds a spot between a cluster of roots and settles down there, pulling out his canteen of water and taking a sip. It takes everything within him not to drain the whole thing right then and there. The small bit of water does little to help the dryness in his throat, but the pounding in his head decreases by some amount. Against his better judgment, he also begins to nibble on the second to last apple in his backpack, wishing he had something else to sate his hunger.</p><p> </p><p>He makes sure not to finish the whole thing, though, still wanting to save it for tomorrow. </p><p> </p><p>He's just about to get up again when he hears it: the tell-tale sound of voices, human voices, and that means other tributes. Carl inhales sharply, gripping his knife tightly as he tries to locate where the sound is coming from.</p><p> </p><p>It takes him a moment, but he soon realizes that it's coming from somewhere in front of him. Carl doesn't waste a second in diving into a nearby cluster of bushes after that realization, inwardly cursing as it rustles around him much louder than he would have liked. The thorns of the bush dig into his skin, but he can hardly give a damn as the voices become louder -- nearer. </p><p> </p><p>He can hear footsteps now too -- more than one pair. At least four if he has to make a guess, and it doesn't take long at all for the owners of the voices to finally come into view. First, he sees the boy and girl from District 1 -- looking slightly rumpled but in relatively okay health, then there's the girl from 2, and following her is Ron -- who wears an angry scowl on his face as he looks around. </p><p> </p><p>Carl freezes.</p><p> </p><p>It's the Career pack -- of course it is.</p><p> </p><p>"Did you hear the way she screamed?" The boy from 1 gushes, sounding delighted. Carl feels bile begin to rise up in his throat, and he covers his mouth with a hand, closing his eyes as his stomach begins to churn. They're obviously talking about a previous victim, and Carl really doesn't want to know who.</p><p> </p><p>"We all did, Randall." The girl from 1 says, her tone oozing with boredom as she twirls a long dagger in between her fingers. "We get it -- you killed the bitch from 11, and you haven't shut up about it since." Carl feels his breath catch at her words, and his eyes snap back open: the Careers were the ones who killed Elodie, and by the sound of it, her death hadn't been a quick one.</p><p> </p><p>"Let him have his fun, Anne," the girl from 2 admonishes, sending a wide grin over her shoulder at the other girl, "you're acting like you didn't do the same thing for a whole two days after you killed the boy from 12." </p><p> </p><p>"At least I didn't do it for a week," the girl from 1 -- Anne -- snarks back. She then kicks at a clump of leaves on the ground, sending them flying into the air, and she lets out a loud groan. "Jesus, I'm bored. I just want to kill someone. It's been almost four fucking days!" </p><p> </p><p>"Don't worry, Anne," Ron assures her, giving her a grin and patting her on the shoulder, "we'll make sure the next tribute we come across gets a slow death. I know how much you like those kinds."</p><p> </p><p>"I'm surprised the Gamemakers haven't done something about it yet," the other boy -- Randall -- muses loudly, glancing up at the sky as if he expects an answer to drop down from the canopy of leaves above. "I mean, surely they can't be all that happy with the lack of death going on, can they?" </p><p> </p><p>"Hell if I know," the girl from 2 states, shrugging her shoulders, "maybe something interesting is going on somewhere else in the arena?" Judging by the look on her face, she obviously doubts it, but Carl figures that it's probably the only plausible explanation that anyone can come up with. Why else would the Gamemakers not throw some sort of twist in after four deathless days?</p><p> </p><p>"I mean, we did give them a bit of a show when we found those two fuckers from 7," Ron reasons, and Carl's fingers dig into the fabric of his pants as he forces himself to stay quiet at the mention of Beth and Ben. They had a run-in with the Careers? He knows that they're still alive, obviously, or else he would have heard the cannons, but the mere revelation causes him to worry. Are they okay? Did the Careers hurt them?</p><p> </p><p>"Yes, but we didn't kill them," the girl from 2 retorts, her tone dry, "I didn't realize people could be that fast." She's obviously disgruntled by this, annoyed that two tributes managed to wriggle their way out of the Careers' grasp. </p><p> </p><p>"If you think <em> they </em>were fast, you should have seen the kid from 11," Randall says with a laugh, and Carl stiffens, "did you see how fast he ran during the bloodbath? He was almost a blur."</p><p> </p><p>"That isn't going to stop us from catching him," Ron says, "we'll get him eventually. That is if he's even still alive."</p><p> </p><p>"Of course he's alive, you doofus. Have you not been keeping track?" The girl from 2 says with a roll of her eyes. "I'm honestly a little impressed. I thought he would be one of the first to go." </p><p> </p><p>A couple of murmurs of agreement echo throughout the four of them and Carl tries to push back the bitterness at their words. Anne crosses her arms over her chest, tucking her knife back into her belt before looking over her shoulders at something and scowling, "hey dumbass, hurry up! We don't have all day, you know!"</p><p> </p><p>"I'm coming," a feminine voice calls out, and the girl from 4 crashes through the bushes, her face flushed red. Carl's gaze ends up drifting to the giant black backpack she's carrying, his eyes widening when he notes the way the whole thing seems filled to the brim with supplies -- and knowing the Careers, it probably is. Even imagining what could be in there causes Carl's stomach to rumble, and he cringes at the sound, praying that it wasn't loud enough for the Careers to hear. </p><p> </p><p>Thankfully, luck seems to be on his side. All four of the Careers are more focused on the District 4 girl than they are on anything else. The girl from 4 gasps for breath as she finally catches up, and Ron takes a step forward, giving the poor girl a hard shove and sending her sprawling to the forest floor. "Don't lag behind, or I will kill you, got it?" The girl gives him a shaky nod, her lower lip wobbling slightly as the other four Careers start off again. </p><p> </p><p>She starts to get up again, swearing as some of the supplies starts dropping out from the pack she wears. She gives a panicked glance toward the Careers retreating backs and hurriedly reaches for the fallen supplies, shoving them into the bag and running off after the Careers before they realize what happened. Carl can't help but give a small wince at the sight of the dark bruise forming on her face -- the Careers clearly haven't been kind to her. </p><p> </p><p>A part of him wonders why she's even with them, but it doesn't take him long to figure it out. They'll kill her if she tries to leave -- she doesn't really have a choice.</p><p> </p><p>Carl listens with bated breath as the Careers trudge on through the thick undergrowth, muttering quietly to one another as they travel. He waits until the sound of their voices and footsteps fades entirely into the noises of the jungle before finally beginning to move again.</p><p> </p><p>Slowly, he crawls out of the cluster of bushes he'd hidden in, and when he stands up, his legs feel stiff -- cramped. He takes in a shaky breath, hugging his arms around his chest, trying to calm his rapidly beating heart. That had been way too close for his liking. </p><p> </p><p>Carl adjusts his own backpack straps, rolling his shoulders somewhat and turning in the direction the Careers had disappeared. Then he glances back over where they had first appeared, a frown covering his face. He can only assume that the Careers came from the cornucopia, or maybe a camp of some kind, so perhaps he should go and take a peek? Try to find some water to soothe his pounding headache and dry throat. </p><p> </p><p>He glances back in the direction they disappeared. </p><p> </p><p>An idea begins to form in his mind.</p><p> </p><p>It's not exactly the smartest one -- scrap that, it's straight-up suicidal -- but Carl has little to no food or water left: he's hungry, thirsty, and if he keeps going on the way that he is, then Carl doubts that he'll be able to make it another day. He had seen the way that backpack bulged with food, water, and weapons. Carl had seen some of what it contained when the girl from 4 had tripped. If Carl can get his hands on some of their supplies while the Careers are distracted, then he'll have enough food and water to last him days -- maybe even another week!</p><p> </p><p>It's a stupid plan -- it will more likely than not get him killed -- but Carl really has no other choice.</p><p> </p><p>Carl lets out a tense exhale, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jacket and starting off in the direction he had seen the Careers go.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Carl is so stupid.</p><p> </p><p>So fucking stupid. </p><p> </p><p>Like really fucking stupid.</p><p> </p><p>And he says that because smart people would not be doing something like this -- they would be running as far as they could in the opposite direction. Hell, they wouldn't have even considered doing something as stupid as Carl currently is. Or at least, that's what he keeps telling himself as he slowly inches his way toward the center of the Career's makeshift camp in the dead of night, careful as to not make a single sound that might end up waking them.</p><p> </p><p>The thing is, Carl enjoys living, and he does not want to stop doing so, but that doesn't take away from the fact that he is really fucking stupid because he literally heard Ron saying that they would give the next tribute they came across a super slow and painful death. But Carl still thinks doing this is a good idea despite that, apparently.  </p><p> </p><p>The Careers from Districts 1 and 2 had both been sound asleep when he found them, thankfully. But they had left the girl from District 4 on watch, but the good news was that she had looked on the verge of falling asleep. So Carl had waited until her head finally had hit the ground, her eyelids drooping shut, before finally making his move. </p><p> </p><p>And that brings him to where he is now -- slowly creeping into the Career camp, inwardly cursing himself as he does so. </p><p> </p><p>The closer he gets to the backpack filled with supplies, the more that his instincts scream at him to go back -- to get the hell out of here before anyone wakes up. But he ignores that part of him, taking slow and careful steps, his eyes pinned on the backpack that is only a couple feet away, perched up against a large boulder which is, unfortunately, only a couple feet away from where the District 4 girl slept. </p><p> </p><p>He considers just grabbing the backpack and running, but he had seen how much trouble the District 4 girl had when carrying it -- plus, the damn bag is enormous -- it's taller than he is! How the hell is he even supposed to hold it? So right now, his best bet is to open up the bag and just transfer as much of the Career's supplies into his own backpack as he can and get the hell out of dodge. </p><p> </p><p>That's easier said than done.</p><p> </p><p>Carl inhales slowly, stepping over one of the snares that are surrounding the camp. He had nearly got caught in one earlier, so now he keeps his eyes mostly on the ground, being careful of where he places his feet. Being caught in one of those things is the last thing Carl needs at the moment. </p><p> </p><p>He stills as the boy from 1 -- Carl already kind of forgot his name -- let out a loud snore, holding his breath as the boy rolls over onto his other side. When Carl is sure that the boy is not about to wake up, he starts moving again, his heart beating so loudly that Carl is almost entirely convinced that it's going to end up waking everyone up. But somehow, it doesn't. So he keeps going.</p><p> </p><p>He's also around ninety-nine percent sure that the cameras are on him at the moment. Which means that his parents, Shane, Daryl, Laura, Princess, and everyone back at home are more likely than not watching as he sneaks into the Career camp. Daryl's probably screaming at the screen back at the Capitol, telling him to get the hell out of here or something like that, but Carl needs to do this. If he doesn't take this chance now, then he knows he isn't going to last another day. It's either he dies from starvation or dehydration, or he dies because he made an attempt to get some more supplies. </p><p> </p><p>Carl prefers the latter, if he's going to be honest. Because then, at least he actually made an attempt to get more supplies instead of sulking around in the jungle as he slowly wilts away. Because as he promised before he first boarded that train to the Capitol, he isn't going down without putting up one hell of a fight.</p><p> </p><p>Finally, Carl reaches the backpack. He takes a look around at the Careers surrounding him, and then the girl from 4. All five of them are sound asleep, and all Carl needs is for them to stay that way till the morning. By then, he'll be long gone with, hopefully, at least half of their supplies. </p><p> </p><p>Slowly as to not make a sound, Carl swings his own backpack around and places it on the ground next to the other one. He shifts around until he's on his knees, opens the bag up before quickly doing the same with the other one. He nearly sobs in relief when at the sheer number of supplies he sees in there: food, water, medicine, water purification tablets, weapons, you name it -- but the need to stay quiet stops him from doing just that.</p><p> </p><p>Instead, he reaches inside, getting to work on transferring all the supplies he can into his own backpack. His fingers close around a canteen of water, and he resists the urge to start drinking some of it now -- he can do that later. Carl places it carefully into his backpack before reaching his hands back inside the other one for more. He glances up every few seconds, terror and nerves making his heart beat so much faster than what was probably healthy. </p><p> </p><p>When he fills his own backpack to the brim, he closes it as best he can, hefting it up onto his shoulders and cringing at the sheer weight of it all. But he's carried fruit baskets heavier than this, so he sucks it up and climbs back up to his feet, doing another quick look around as he does so. None of the Careers had moved an inch. They remain fast asleep, thankfully unaware of the thief that had snuck into their camp. </p><p> </p><p>Carl shakes his head and hefts the backpack up slightly. He needs to stop loitering around and get the hell out of here before anyone wakes up. Carl takes a step forward, only to freeze when he hears someone take in a sharp breath. Carl turns, looking down at the girl from District 4, who is asleep only a couple inches away from his feet.</p><p> </p><p>Only her eyes are open, and she's staring right at him.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Shit. </em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Oops...? My finger slipped.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. The Games -- Part II</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Early Christmas gift, I guess.</p><p>I hope you enjoy!</p><p>I'm sorry it's a little shorter than usual, though.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Two large, confused, and very much awake eyes are staring up at Carl, those eyes belonging to the girl from District 4. Who also happens to be one of the Careers. Who had woken up and just caught Carl sneaking out of their camp with half of their supplies in tow. </p><p> </p><p><em> Well, shit, </em>Carl thinks, frozen in place as he and the girl stare at one another with wide eyes, none of them moving a single inch. None of them daring to say a single word that might break the suffocating silence, both waiting to see what the other would do next. </p><p> </p><p>Then, ever so slowly, the girl's eyes drift over toward the Career's backpack that is still leaning on the boulder but is noticeably more empty than it had been earlier. She sees their bag, and then she looks at Carl and the one that he carries on his own back, stuffed to the brim with supplies -- the Career's supplies. He sees the understanding and realization dawn within her eyes, and she opens up her mouth -- either about to say something to Carl or shout out and wake up the Careers. </p><p> </p><p>He doesn't know.</p><p> </p><p>He decides he can't risk it.</p><p> </p><p>Carl acts before he thinks, taking out the large hunting knife he has stored away in his pocket and dragging it across the girl's throat in one quick motion. She gurgles, eyes going wider than saucers. Blood pools out from the spot that Carl slashed, and he watches in a mix of relief and horror as the life drains from her eyes, a cannon sounding seconds later. Behind him, he hears the rest of the Careers beginning to stir -- having been jolted from their (somewhat) peaceful slumber by the loud and sudden noise. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>  Well, shit.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Carl doesn't waste time running out of the camp.</p><p> </p><p>The sudden movement makes him dizzy, reminding him that he is still dehydrated and exhausted, hungry too and that only causes his head to throb even more -- but he doesn't want to be caught. And he doesn't want the Careers to see him. He doesn't want them to see which direction he had gone in or even see who he was. He just wants to get as far away from them as possible. The farther, the better.</p><p> </p><p>But it seems as though luck isn't on his side this time, unfortunately. He hears a shout followed by the sound of heavy footsteps racing after him as Carl charges into the thick of the jungle, nearly crashing into various trees, tripping over rocks and roots and bushes and the slippery grass and all sorts of other shit as he goes. Carl's not at all as coordinated as he usually is when running -- he blames the exhaustion -- and that only makes him frustrated as he thinks about the cameras that are no doubt on him right now, as well as the number of people no doubt watching this. Either cheering the Careers on or something similar. Probably cheering the Careers on. </p><p> </p><p>Definitely cheering the Careers on. </p><p> </p><p>Carl chokes back a gasp as he stumbles into a cluster of thorn-filled bushes <em>  (why are there so many thorn bushes?!) </em>and gritting his teeth at the way the barbs dig into his skin as he fights his way out. As soon as he pulls himself out, he continues on running, his heart beating like a pair of drums in his ears and his lungs burning like someone had set a fire inside him as he forces himself to move faster. </p><p> </p><p>Some mysterious instinct causes him to duck his head. Seconds later, a knife whistles past him -- right where his head would have been if he hadn't moved. Carl inhales sharply at the realization, throwing a quick glance over his shoulder right as Ron and the two girls charge out of a pair of nearby bushes. They must have left the boy back at camp. Carl's certainly not complaining -- that means there is one less pursuer for him to worry about. </p><p> </p><p>But three Careers can kill him just as well as four can. Ron is staring right at Carl, and he lifts his hand, the gleam of a blade making itself visible as he prepares to throw it at Carl, who lets out a squeak of terror, whipping his head back around and willing himself to move even faster. He ducks behind a tree, and the knife Ron had been holding whizzes by, embedding itself into a nearby log with an audible thunk -- once again missing the target it had been intended for. </p><p> </p><p>Carl grinds his teeth together hard enough to break them, trying to focus on running as far away from the Careers as possible. The backpack is slowing him down, but Carl isn't about to let go of his new findings, not now, not ever -- not when he knows he'll die without them. Plus, the Careers are clumsy -- stumbling around in the darkness, still bleary-eyed from sleep while Carl is more experienced with this kind of thing and much more awake. </p><p> </p><p>He tries not to think of the girl from 4 -- of her wide eyes and then the blood that had pooled from her throat the moment he had dragged his knife across it. He wonders if she had felt any pain -- any fear. He hopes that she hadn't. She had hardly seemed any older than Carl -- thirteen, maybe fourteen? He wonders if she meant him any harm -- if she might have actually let him get away with stealing supplies.</p><p> </p><p>He knows that she probably wouldn't have, but even if she would have, she's dead now -- nothing can change that. He needs to be focusing on getting away from the Careers. So Carl tries pushing those thoughts as far away as possible. </p><p> </p><p>It's hard -- more than it should be.</p><p> </p><p>"I know that you're out there, eleven!" Ron calls out in a sing-song voice, one that sends a shiver of fear crawling down his spine. "Come out, come out, wherever you are! I promise I'll make your death quicker if you do!"</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Um, no thanks. I'd rather not die.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>He also doubts that Ron would actually keep his promise. That boy is <em> bloodthirsty.  </em></p><p> </p><p>Carl keeps running, keeps putting one foot in front of the other, he keeps moving because to stop would mean a slow and painful death at the hands of the Careers. Each step is near torturous, and his head spins faster and faster with every movement, no matter how small. Each breath he takes in comes in the form of a ragged, pleading gasp -- and he tries hard to ignore the blistering burn that had begun to settle into his lungs. Carl hadn't even realized what bad shape he was in up until now.</p><p> </p><p>Maybe if he had, then he wouldn't have done something as stupid as this. </p><p> </p><p>Actually, probably not. Maybe Carl would have been more careful, but he would have still done it.</p><p> </p><p>Well, either way, it's much too late to change his mind now.</p><p> </p><p>Carl nearly trips as his foot gets caught under a root but somehow manages to keep his balance. His face stings from the various scratches he had gotten from the thorn bushes, but while there's pain, they aren't bleeding all that much, and it's not like Carl has much time to do anything about it as he crashes through the jungle trying to avoid the Career's dangerous and deadly grasp. </p><p> </p><p>He just needs to make them lose his trail -- make them go in the wrong direction or lose track of him. It doesn't matter which one it is; he just needs to get rid of them. And soon. Briefly, Carl considers climbing up a tree to get away from them, but he dismisses that option quickly. He already knows that he's not going to have the time or energy to get high enough away from the Careers before they manage to catch up to him. </p><p> </p><p>Instead, he darts underneath a cluster of low hanging branches, ducking his head and running as fast as his feet can carry him. He doesn't dare look over his shoulder again, not wanting to see the bloodthirsty looks on each of the Career's faces. Instead, when he starts hearing their jeering remarks and shouts, it only urges him to run ever faster, his mind racing at a mile a minute as he tries desperately to come up with a way to get out of this mess, preferably alive.</p><p> </p><p>So he runs. He runs as fast as he can. Runs even when he feels on the verge of collapsing. He weaves through the trees and bushes, using his small size to his advantage as he navigates the jungle thick with trees and underbrush, having a much better time than the ones behind him are. It's one of the few times that Carl finds himself grateful for his smaller size. </p><p> </p><p>Carl's eyes race around. A small hole between a cluster of trees catches his attention, and he changes directions, peeling off toward it without a second thought. The opening is tight, something that Carl can run through without much trouble, but anyone taller or wider would have to squeeze through. Finding a way through would slow the Careers down enough so that Carl would have the time to hide. They could try to go around, but the trees are so close together that doing so would take ages, only giving Carl more time to get away. </p><p> </p><p>He hopes that they choose the latter option, but he doubts it.</p><p> </p><p>Carl ducks his head as he races through, his shoulders brushing up against the bark. He's on the other side in seconds, and he continues running, a faint and weak grin spreading across his face when he hears the Careers swearing behind him. He estimates that it would only take them a couple minutes to actually get through, but a couple minutes is just what Carl needs to get the hell out of here.</p><p> </p><p>And then Carl enters a small clearing. The full moon is hanging high above like an ornament dangling from a Christmas tree. Well, like the Christmas trees that he's seen in books. He doesn't know if they actually look that way -- his parents don't either. Carl runs through the wet grass that climbs up to his waist, stumbling and slipping a few times but otherwise managing to stay on his feet before pulling to a sudden halt as he reaches the end of it, eyes going as wide as saucers. </p><p> </p><p>Oh shit.</p><p> </p><p>He takes a cautious step back, eyes sweeping over the steep cliff he had nearly stepped over in his rush to get away from the Careers. He had almost fallen into that thing, and he probably would have if he hadn't stopped in the nick of time. Carl swallows down the terror rising in his throat, peering down at the area below the cliff. Trees are surrounding the area around it, towering, looming, and tall -- and when Carl looks down, he realizes he can't even see the jungle floor. All he can see are trees, leaves, and darkness. A grim realization settles in. </p><p> </p><p>If he had fallen, he probably would have died.</p><p> </p><p>Carl stumbles backward, breathing in a soft sigh of relief before freezing when the hoots and hollering of the Careers catches his attention, and he could have sworn that his heart had actually stopped beating. His stomach seems to literally plummet, and he doesn't waste time in fleeing toward the nearest cluster of trees right as the Careers crash into view on the opposite side of the clearing. </p><p> </p><p>"We see you!" one of the girls shout, her voice gleeful.</p><p> </p><p>His heart is pounding faster and faster to the point that his heartbeat is all he can hear, and he grinds his teeth together and wills himself to pick up the pace. But adrenaline starts fading away into exhaustion, and he can feel himself slowing despite his best efforts to do the exact opposite. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> There's no place for him to hide -- no place for him to go.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>He can't go for much longer. </p><p> </p><p>Carl knows that he doesn't have the speed or endurance to outrun the Careers for much longer. They are literally trained tributes who had all the supplies one could need in these Games, and while he had initially had the advantage of them still being half-asleep when the chase first started, they are much more awake now, and he is much more exhausted. </p><p> </p><p>In the end, his survival instincts drives him to climb the closest tree he can find. While his fingers are still bloody and raw from earlier climbs, his need to stay alive has him pushing through the pain. That being said, it isn't an easy climb. The trees in the jungle are giant, and the lowest branches are at least fifteen or seventeen feet off the ground, usually even more than that. But thankfully, there are plenty of low hanging vines and loads of jagged edges in the trunk for him to grab onto and use to haul himself up. </p><p> </p><p>Jesus. This fucking sucks.</p><p> </p><p>Carl peers down at the Careers as they come to a stop in front of his tree. Ron tilts his head back, pointing a flashlight at the tree, moving the beam of light up until it comes upon Carl's small figure clinging to the trunk high above, half-hidden by the thick foliage. </p><p> </p><p>The brunet laughs upon catching sight of Carl high up in the tree. It's a low and ugly laugh -- not like the ones he had given during his interview back at the Capitol. Unconsciously, Carl inches further up, wanting to shake the other tribute's stare from his body. </p><p> </p><p>"Are you fucking kidding me," says the girl from District 2, sounding exasperated. "The fucking twelve-year-old stole from us?!"</p><p> </p><p>"Someone get him down," Ron says impatiently, his brief fit of laughter having tapered off into irritation, "Anne, throw a knife up at him."</p><p> </p><p>If Carl weren't as blinded by the bright beam of light coming from the flashlight, he would see the way that the girl rolls her eyes. "I would if I could, but I can't," she retorts, "he's too high up. It's also dark as fuck, and even if it wasn't, there are too many branches in the way. If I throw a knife, chances are it'll get stopped by one of those."</p><p> </p><p>"Well, we need to do something," says the girl from 2, annoyance dripping from her every word, "I am not going to let another tribute get away from us. Especially one who stole from us." </p><p> </p><p>"Feel free to climb up there then," Ron snaps, and despite the flashlight, Carl can just barely see the brunet pulling a knife out from a sheath at his waist. He tosses it onto the ground in front of the girl from 2. And she shoots him an icy glare. "And lets not forget that it's your fault the tributes from 7 managed to get away in the first place."</p><p> </p><p>"The girl threw an axe at me, and I dodged it," says 2, crossing her arms, "what else was I supposed to do - let her kill me? Not fucking likely."</p><p> </p><p>"Guys," Anne interjects, "tribute in the tree, remember?"</p><p> </p><p>All three Careers look up at Carl in near-perfect unison. </p><p> </p><p>Shit. This is awkward. </p><p> </p><p>Carl has two options here. One, stay silent and wait for them to finish staring at him, or two, try and buy himself some time to figure out how to get himself the fuck out of here.</p><p> </p><p>The decision isn't hard.</p><p> </p><p>He chooses the second one. </p><p> </p><p>"So um," Carl says, eyeing the group nervously as he inches further up the tree trunk, "is there any way I can convince you not to kill me?"</p><p> </p><p>"No," they say in unison. Carl can almost hear the laughter of the Capitol's audience as they watch this odd scene from where they are safely tucked away in the city. </p><p> </p><p>Carl winces. "Damn. Well, it was worth a shot," he says after a second or two, forcing himself to appear nonchalant as he shrugs his shoulders, wishing he could adjust the straps of his backpack -- they were starting to make his shoulders sore. "You know, you guys seem really pissed off about the whole stealing thing." </p><p> </p><p>The girl from 2 tilts her head, raising a brow. "Why wouldn't we be?"</p><p> </p><p>Good point. If someone stole from Carl, he wouldn't be all that happy either. But still... he's surprised that they're <em> just </em>mad about that. "Did you guys like... forget I killed the girl from District 4 or...?" </p><p> </p><p>Should he be bringing that up? He probably shouldn't be, but oh well. </p><p> </p><p>"She was going to die eventually," Ron says stiffly, "she was kind of annoying, to be honest. So thanks for that."</p><p> </p><p>"Oh," that's kind of morbid, "you're welcome... I guess?" His mind races a mile a minute as his eyes dart around, trying to find a way to possibly get out of this mess. Carl's heart sinks lower and lower when he can't find one -- unless the Careers decide to let him wander away, which he honestly doubts that they'll do, then he's a goner already. </p><p> </p><p>Goner or not, Carl isn't going to make killing him easy for them.</p><p> </p><p>"How long are you staying up there," Anne asks, eyes narrowing.</p><p> </p><p>Carl shrugs. "As long as it takes for you guys to go away, I guess."</p><p> </p><p>"You can't stay up there forever," the girl from 2 points out.</p><p> </p><p>"You can't sit down there forever either," he shoots back.</p><p> </p><p>"Touche," says 2, "but I doubt the Gamemakers would let us loiter around waiting for the other to give in, so unless you want to be killed in some really fucked up way - one that will no doubt be extremely painful - I suggest you come down here."</p><p> </p><p>That is... a pretty good point. The Gamemakers had never been known to be patient. </p><p> </p><p>But he isn't budging.</p><p> </p><p>"So you can give me an equally as slow and painful death?" says Carl, raising a brow, "yeah, no thanks."</p><p> </p><p>The girl from 2 looks the tree up and down, a thoughtful look crossing her face. "If you come down, I can make it clean for you. No pain - quick and easy."</p><p> </p><p>"What?!" complains Ron, looking horrified by the mere idea of not torturing someone to death. Anne looks to be in a similar state.</p><p> </p><p>Carl is actually kind of horrified to find himself considering her offer. Not many tributes are gifted with a quick and painless death, much less from a Career. But another part of him doubts she'll go through with it. One thing that he's learned from watching past Games is that you can never trust a Career. </p><p> </p><p>So...</p><p> </p><p>"No can do," Carl says apologetically, "but thanks for the offer - I appreciate it."</p><p> </p><p>"You're not taking it, though," Ron points out.</p><p> </p><p>"Yeah, because I don't want to die."</p><p> </p><p>"This is getting nowhere," 2 declares, and he can barely make out her pinching her nose in slight annoyance, "eleven, you're going to die either way. So either you come down now, and we do it quickly, or you stay up there, and we'll find a way to get you down and make it as painful as possible."</p><p> </p><p>Huh.</p><p> </p><p>That's honestly... kind of terrifying.</p><p> </p><p>"Thanks but no thanks," Carl says, hissing in surprise as Ron shines the flashlight in his eyes once again. </p><p> </p><p>2 doesn't look very upset by this response. If anything, this just makes the girl look happier. She's probably relieved that she gets to torture the fuck out of someone eventually -- it makes him glad he hadn't accepted her offer. "You do you, I suppose," she says breezily, turning to face the other two Careers at her side, "any ideas?"</p><p> </p><p>A beat of silence.</p><p> </p><p>"I say we throw something at him," Ron says, crossing his arms.</p><p> </p><p>"That won't work," Anne says tiredly, "could we climb the tree?"</p><p> </p><p>Carl hauls himself up a little further at her words. </p><p> </p><p>The girl from 2 shakes her head. "Forget I asked," she says, "You two stay here - I'm going to go get Randall."</p><p> </p><p>Ron snorts. "Have fun with that."</p><p> </p><p>Carl's stomach gives another low grumble, twisting and cramping in pain as Ron and Anne settle down and the girl from 2 disappears to go get Randall. But this time, he actually has food to spare, and carefully, he makes his way up to a branch that could hold his weight, straddling it and pressing his back to the trunk so he can go through his backpack and its stolen goods. </p><p> </p><p>He pulls out a pack of nuts and digs in, watching as Ron and Anne set up camp below. </p><p> </p><p>Now... how is he going to get out of this mess?</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Randall and the girl from 2 come back a few minutes later, the remainders of their supplies in tow. Carl is sipping at a canteen of water (one of the canteens he stole) when they appear, and when they peer up at him to check on how he's doing (or more specifically, if he's still there), he gives them a cheeky grin, taking a long sip of the stolen water. </p><p> </p><p>He knows he's probably not helping his case much, but for fuck's sake, he's stuck in a tree and bored as hell, so give him a break, okay?</p><p> </p><p>As it turns out, the Careers are incredibly patient. The girl from 2 hadn't been lying when she said that they would wait him out because even after sitting in the tree for two days, they remain under the tree. Occasionally two of them (usually Ron and Randall) will go out to scout the area, and judging by the cannon Carl hears halfway through the first day, they even managed to catch someone. (Who he later learns is the boy from 6.)</p><p> </p><p>Through it all, Carl spends his time going through his stolen goods. Patching up his fingers and the cuts on his face the best he can with the medicine he finds inside, eating the occasional granola bar, and sipping at his water. He also spends some time inspecting the weapons he had managed to fit inside. Which consists of a few knives, a couple throwing stars, and even some spearheads (which he does not recall putting inside, but oh well.)</p><p> </p><p>Beggars can't be choosers, after all. And Carl's just glad he's managed to get rid of that pounding headache he had before.</p><p> </p><p>It's halfway through the second day before Carl decides he's not staying up in the tree any longer. A plan forms in his head as the hours pass, and he waits until Ron and Randall go off hunting for more tributes, leaving Anne and the girl from 2 to watch Carl. God, that makes them sound like they're babysitting him or something, not waiting for him to come down from a tree so they can kill him slowly and painfully. </p><p> </p><p>But with his half-baked plan, hopefully he won't die that way.</p><p> </p><p>Then again, the plan he's making isn't exactly the best one. In fact, it's a horrible plan. It's a foolish one and could quite possibly end with his death at the hands of the Careers, but Carl is desperate, and if there's a chance that he can manage to live to see the next sunrise, then he is going to take it, no matter what the consequences may or may not be. Daryl had said Carl had to take risks if he wanted to live, and that's just what he's going to do.</p><p> </p><p>He takes out the hunting knife from his pocket, the blade still coated with the District 4 girl's blood drying blood, and turns it over again and again in his hands, taking great care not to drop it. It's not the only weapon he has, but he prefers not to lose any. He shifts his hold on the handle before tucking it back inside the pocket of his jacket, his gaze returning to the girls sitting below, talking about something he couldn't care less about as they sharpen their knives and other blades. He knows he won't be able to hit them from here, but if he goes down the tree a little bit, then maybe...</p><p> </p><p>The girl from 2 suddenly stands up. "I'm going to go fill our waters," she grunts, not even waiting for Anne to answer before picking up three supposedly empty water canteens and darting into the bushes and out of sight. Carl doesn't know how far the river she's going to is or how long it will take for her to get there, but he knows he has to be quick if he wants to have even the slightest chance of escaping this tree. </p><p> </p><p>Anne doesn't even look up as the girl from 2 disappears into the bushes, simply dragging one of her knives against a rock's rough surface. She even has her back turned to the tree he's hidden in, a mistake that will prove fatal in a few short minutes.</p><p> </p><p>Carefully as to not make a sound, Carl starts shimmying down the trunk. He only has one shot at this.</p><p> </p><p>His movements are quick and easy, and he descends with surprisingly little noise. One of the perks of living in District 11 is that climbing up and down trees is practically second nature for him -- he's been doing it for pretty much his whole life. Hell, he can do it with his eyes closed. Doing it without making a sound is just as easy -- and with all the background noise of the jungle, chances are if Anne hears him, she probably will brush it off as an animal prowling around nearby and nothing more. </p><p> </p><p>After climbing down a few feet, Carl grabs onto one of the vines hanging nearby. He uses this vine to half-slide half-climb down the rest of the way, and even as his feet touch the ground, Anne is none the wiser. She just keeps sharpening her knife, filling the world with an eerie sound of her blade dragging against the rock as she waits for the girl from 2 to return with their waters. </p><p> </p><p>The moment Carl's on the ground, he hesitates, glancing toward the cluster of trees behind the one he just climbed down. Anne has no idea he had left the tree, and her back is still facing him, which means if he's quiet, then he can just creep away until he's at a safe distance, and no one would be any wiser until they looked up later to see him gone. It's the easiest option -- the one most people would take if they were in his shoes.</p><p> </p><p>But...</p><p> </p><p>Carl does another quick look around, unease bubbling from deep within him. Daryl is probably screaming at the TV right now, telling him to get the fuck out of here before someone notices he left the tree. But at the same time, Anne is all alone. She let her guard down and is a constant threat to his survival for as long as she lives.</p><p> </p><p>Either way, Carl needs to make his move -- and fast. The longer he spends loitering around doing nothing, the higher the chance that Anne will turn around or the other Careers will come back. </p><p> </p><p>He can run and hide, but there's another option. One that can reduce the chances of one of the Careers winning -- an option that can increase the chances of him winning. </p><p> </p><p>Carl doesn't know what's out there -- he has only explored a small part of this arena, and who knows what kind of dangers lurk out there. But he knows how dangerous the Careers are, and if he can eliminate a threat before they potentially try and kill him, that will drastically increase his chances of winning. </p><p> </p><p>He knows what he has to do -- he'll have to kill her.</p><p> </p><p>A large part of Carl is screaming in horror, telling him that he needs to snap out of it -- that killing people is sick and messed up and wrong. It had been a different story back at the Bloodbath -- the girl from 5 had attacked him, and he had no other choice, but here he can just leave. Killing people when there are other options compared to killing people in self-defense are two entirely different things. </p><p> </p><p>But Anne has already tried to kill him, has already killed other tributes with little to no mercy. She's a Career and poses an enormous threat to his survival. Sure, killing her would be sick and messed up, but running away wouldn't guarantee anything. It just meant that he survived for now, but the Careers could easily track him down and kill him. If he gets rid of one of the Careers, he'll only have three of them to worry about, not four. </p><p> </p><p>And so despite his screaming thoughts, he stalks forward as Daryl had taught him to do, his footsteps light and soundless, his already tiny frame coiled to half his height as he slowly reaches into the pocket of his jacket, fingers curling around the handle of his knife.</p><p> </p><p>He creeps closer and closer to where she sits, his body tense and ready to bolt at any given moment. He can barely breathe -- can hardly believe that he's about to do this. His palms grow sweaty, but he ignores it. He stalks closer and closer, and before he can hesitate or even think long enough to change his mind, he's lunging forward, grabbing Anne's hair in a tight grip, yanking her head back before she can react, and drawing a crimson smile on her throat with his knife. </p><p> </p><p>Her body goes rigid before falling limp, and he steps back, letting it fall to the ground with a thunk, a sound that's followed by a cannon being fired.</p><p> </p><p>Knowing that the rest of the Careers could be on him in seconds, Carl spins around, knife in hand, and books it out of there, dark blood staining his fingertips red. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Anne's face is shown in the sky that night.</p><p> </p><p>There are eight tributes left.</p><p> </p><p>There are seven tributes between him and home.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Two days later, on the thirteenth morning in the arena, he can't stop thinking about what he did to Anne. </p><p> </p><p>Does he regret it? No. Does he feel bad for it? Definitely. Because Anne hadn't asked to be in the Games. She had been reaped unlike the rest of the Careers, who had volunteered. And while he knows that killing her had been necessary for his own survival, his mind won't let him forget what had happened. It's the same with the girl from 4. Although he hadn't much time to think about her before, the two girls he killed are all he can think about. Their deaths keep replaying in his mind, every second of them -- like a radio playing a song on repeat. </p><p> </p><p>And they won't leave him alone. Every time he closes his eyes, all he can see are their faces staring back at him, blood oozing from their throats. The faint gurgles escaping their bloodied lips as the life fades from them and the sound of the cannon firing not long after their bodies go still keeps filling his ears whenever the forest grows silent -- the never-ending sound of death and misery. And it's a constant loop in his mind, never leaving and never growing any quieter. Nothing that Carl does drowns out the noise, and it's driving him crazy.</p><p> </p><p>Their faces are all he can see.</p><p> </p><p>The sounds they make as they die are all he can hear. </p><p> </p><p>It's torture: pure and simple. Carl squeezes his eyes shut and covers his ears with his hands when it all becomes too much, but nothing stops the horrifying sights and sounds from filtering through. </p><p> </p><p>Carl stumbles, resting his shoulder against the trunk of a nearby tree to keep himself from falling as a wave of nausea washes over him. He heaves -- once, twice -- his stomach giving a painful lurch as he empties the contents of his stomach onto the large tree roots next to him. He wipes his mouth with the sleeve of his jacket when he's done, squeezing his eyes shut as he tries to regain control of his breathing. </p><p> </p><p>God... he must look so pathetic. </p><p> </p><p>The Capitol doesn't like tributes who feel grief for someone they've killed, and they sure as hell don't like ones who lose themselves over killing a person who tried to kill them not long before.</p><p> </p><p>But he can't bring himself to care anymore. </p><p> </p><p><em> Fuck the Capitol, fuck everyone who had anything to do with this sick game, </em>he thinks bitterly, and though he's half tempted to say it out loud, he bites that urge back. As satisfying as saying that would be, he doesn't need to paint a target onto his back. In fact, that's the very last thing he needs right now. He may not like the Capitol, but he knows that they can kill him with the simple flick of a switch if he does something to piss them off. </p><p> </p><p>Still. Fuck the Capitol.</p><p> </p><p>He hopes the Governor rots in hell whenever the fuck he gets there. </p><p> </p><p>Which is hopefully soon.</p><p> </p><p>Carl lets out a bitter laugh as he forces himself to move forward, stepping over the pool of vomit he created as he tries to put as much distance between him and the Careers as possible. While he has little doubt that he's long since lost their trail, it's better to be safe than sorry. If they catch him in the state that he's in, chances are he won't get away again.</p><p> </p><p>So he keeps walking, keeps moving because to stop would mean letting his guard down. </p><p> </p><p>And letting one's guard down in the arena means death.</p><p> </p><p>Carl stares down at his hands, at the drying blood that covers his fingertips, some of it his own and the rest of it... not his own. The red makes his already dark skin appear even darker, and he absently starts scratching at the flaking blood, wanting to rid himself of yet another reminder of the lives he had taken not that long ago. </p><p> </p><p><em> No, don't... don't think about that, </em> Carl tells himself, letting his hands drop back down to his sides. <em> Think about good things, like Mom and Dad and Uncle Shane... </em></p><p> </p><p>He wonders if they're okay. Wonders if they can see him now. Probably not... Most times, the camera only focuses on the more important things happening in the Games, so they would have no reason to be watching him. Chances are the cameras were on the Careers right now, not on a random twelve-year-old tribute who just threw up on the jungle floor. That wouldn't be-</p><p> </p><p>His thoughts are cut off as something wet lands squarely on his nose, stopping him right in his tracks as confusion races through him.</p><p> </p><p>What the...?</p><p> </p><p>Carl tilts his head back, peering up at the thick foliage above him, trying to find some hint of the sky with little luck. He frowns, eyes crossing when another drop of... something lands on his nose out of nowhere in particular. He starts walking again, picking up the pace a bit until he finds himself in a clearing of sorts, the sky just barely visible through the leaves.</p><p> </p><p>From what he can see -- which, granted, isn't much -- the cloudless blue sky he had seen a few hours earlier is gone. Instead, there are dark, crackling, and swirling storm clouds that had formed overhead, reminding him eerily of the sky during the cold winters he and his family had been forced to endure back in District 11. But this time, he doubts that snow is what these clouds will bring.</p><p> </p><p>Another droplet lands on his face, this time on his cheek.</p><p> </p><p>It was raining.</p><p> </p><p>About time too. Carl was starting to get tired of how humid this place is getting. And maybe he can clean himself up a bit too. </p><p> </p><p>Another drop of water lands on his head, followed by another which lands on his forehead, and, for a second, he allows himself to feel relieved -- refreshed even. But then he hears it. </p><p> </p><p>Or rather, it's what he doesn't hear.</p><p> </p><p>Save for the pitter-patter of rain which is steadily growing in intensity, the jungle is totally silent. No animals are prowling in the distance, no birds are cawing from high above, it's just... quiet.</p><p> </p><p>A trickle of unease creeps up his spine.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Something's wrong. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Then, he hears a scream.</p><p> </p><p>He nearly leaps right out of his skin when he hears it, head whipping around from side to side as he tries to pinpoint where the source of the scream had come from. His fear is only amplified when a cannon sounds seconds later, signaling that whatever had caused the forest to go silent had managed to kill a fellow tribute -- one who was nearby, judging by how loud that scream was.</p><p> </p><p>That's when he hears the rushing.</p><p> </p><p>He isn't quite sure what he's hearing at first. It's a faint sound... like wind whirling and the roaring of what he thinks is a river. But that can't be right because there are no rivers near here, or at least not one he's aware of. Carl turns in place -- once, twice, three times -- trying to figure out what direction he's hearing it from as the rain grows heavier and heavier. </p><p> </p><p>The sound is... familiar almost.</p><p> </p><p>Why is it familiar?</p><p> </p><p>The rushing grows louder, and that's when Carl starts moving, slowly stepping back, one foot behind the other as he eyes the area in front of him -- the direction where the rushing is coming from. His heartbeat picks up, and he glances behind him, uncertainty churning in his gut.</p><p> </p><p>It takes him a couple of moments to figure out just what it is he's hearing, but then the realization crashes into him. </p><p> </p><p>He's heard this sound before while watching previous Games. Or, more specifically, it's a sound he's heard while watching the 75th Hunger Games where a near colossal wave had rushed through one part of the arena, crushing anything and anyone unfortunate enough to fall in its path. </p><p> </p><p>And one similar to that was coming toward him now.</p><p> </p><p>Crap.</p><p> </p><p>Carl starts running right as the realization sweeps upon him and the first signs of the wave appear on the opposite side of the clearing, shifting and crashing against tree trunks and boulders and anything else that falls in its path. He can hear the rushing louder now, and when he dares to glance behind him, he sees large swirls of water descending rapidly on the trees behind him, growing closer and closer with each and every second. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Nope, nope, nope, nope -- fuck that. Fuck that on so many different levels. Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck-</em>
</p><p> </p><p>His eyes quickly dart around, doing a sweep of the area in search of some kind of escape, but the trees are too tall here -- the lowest branches being at least thirty feet above him. As fast of a climber he was, he'd never be able to get up one of those before the angry wave reached him. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Run. Just run. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>So he does. He runs and runs and runs, his breathing coming in short, raspy pants as a painful burn settles in his lungs. Buckets of icy rain descend all around him, coming down harder and harder in near relentless streams, and a dense fog starts to form, making it hard to see even a foot in front of him. Running becomes dangerous as the ground turns wet and slippery from the rain, but the wave is gaining on him, and to stop would mean certain death. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Drip. Drip. Drip. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>His feet slip and slide in the slowly thickening mud, and staying upright is becoming a challenge. After nearly tripping at least five times, Carl tries to stick to running along the tree roots and not in the mud, but that only slows him down even more. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Drip. Drip. Drip. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>He doesn't have to look over his shoulder to see how close the water is getting. He can hear the rushing growing louder and louder. </p><p> </p><p>So loud.</p><p> </p><p>A horrible realization falls upon him. He's not going to outrun this thing -- the wave is too fast for that.  </p><p> </p><p>He needs to get to high ground. </p><p> </p><p>But the only high ground nearby is the trees, and he already ruled that option out.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Drip. Drip. Drip.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Water starts to lap at his ankles.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Drip. Drip. Drip. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>It reaches his knees. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Drip. Drip. Drip. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>A loud crack resounds from nearby, drawing a startled scream from his lips as something crashes down somewhere behind him. Carl urges himself to go faster at the sound, praying that maybe, just maybe, he can get out of this. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Dripdripdripdripdrip-</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Too late. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Dripdripdripdripdripdrip-</em>
</p><p> </p><p>The water hits him.</p><p> </p><p>He lets out a scream that is quickly cut short as the freezing water envelops him in a cold blanket, cutting off his oxygen and stinging at his eyes as he is swept up into the water's icy depths. He bangs his head on something as the water surrounds him, probably a tree or something, and his head explodes in pain as his ears start to ring. <em> Painpainpainpainpain- </em></p><p> </p><p>Another strong surge of water slams into him as Carl struggles to regain his scattered bearings in the great, big, swirling, rushing wave that tosses him around like he's nothing more than a ragdoll being played with by a toddler. His hands scrabble around for some kind of grip, and his fingers close around some sort of branch hanging in the water, but the mere force of the wave simply pushes him away, and he loses his hold moments later. His stomach seemingly drops as he gets swept up by the current again -- his lungs screaming for the air that he desperately needs.</p><p> </p><p><em> Oh, God, please, </em> Carl pleads as he struggles to find the direction of the surface, <em> please... not like this. </em></p><p> </p><p>But his prayers go unheard. </p><p> </p><p><em> The Gamemakers must have been getting sick of a lack of action, </em>he realizes numbly, and while he had hoped that perhaps the Gamemakers wouldn't interfere, he isn't the least bit surprised either. The current rushes Carl along with a violent force, sweeping him up and slamming him into the boulders and looming trees with wide tree trunks with little mercy. The water pushes him upwards briefly, allowing Carl's head to pop above the surface for a split second, and he takes in a gasping breath of air before being forced back under once more.</p><p> </p><p>The water forces him down, farther and farther into its depths: tossing, swirling, turning, and whirling him around again and again and again until he is unable to find the direction of the surface any longer. He slams into yet another tree, and with a muffled crunch, a white, hot surge of pain engulfs his left arm before it goes horrifyingly numb seconds later.</p><p> </p><p>Carl cries out soundlessly, a cascade of bubbles escaping his lips, the action only causing more air to leave his already empty lungs. He spins around, desperately trying to find some way to go up to the surface for more air, but his efforts are all in vain. Carl can't breathe -- there's water in his throat, his lungs, and every part of him, and he can't<em> breathe. </em>Carl's going to die here, was going to be pulled into the darkness of the water and returned home dead in a box to his devastated parents. He would never get to grow up, never meet his little brother or sister, never see his parents again, never-</p><p> </p><p>Never-</p><p> </p><p>No-</p><p> </p><p>He chokes around the watery sludge that surrounds him and tries desperately to find some sort of hold as he's tossed around in the river. Icy tendrils of water reach out, gradually adding more and more weight to him and his backpack, which had somehow managed to stay on his back -- slowly pulling Carl further and further into its murky and dark depths. His movements grow sluggish and uncoordinated -- he's running out of air, and the little oxygen that remains ends up escaping him in choked out sobs. </p><p> </p><p>His head is pounding louder than it ever has before. His lungs are failing him more and more with each passing second, and all that Carl can hear is the frantic beating of his heart in his chest and the blood pumping in his ears like the beating of drums. Everything else is drowned out as the water rushes into his ears. The Gamemakers are preparing his cannon now, no doubt. Just sitting, fingers inches away from the button that would make the cannon sound, waiting for the last bit of life to finally seep out of him as the water drained the oxygen from his body. Just watching, waiting.</p><p> </p><p>The faces of his parents flash before his closed eyes, Andre appears next, and then Shane, and Daryl, Princess... The faces are muddled and watered down -- blurry and muddy. And they only become more and more so as the seconds pass by until Carl is hardly able to make them out anymore. </p><p> </p><p>Slowly, Carl forces open his eyes, blinking heavily and trying to take a look around as the water stung at his eyes. His vision is blurry, and black dots are dancing in the corner of his eyes, making it hard to see even an inch in front of him. </p><p> </p><p>The world is a befuddled mess of blue, green, gray, and black, but Carl finds himself twisting around and around until he is just barely able to catch sight of the darkened night sky through the murky water. Relief surges through him, and, using every bit of the remaining strength he had left, Carl stretches out his uninjured arm, kicking out his legs -- the way that his dad taught him in the little spare time he had -- and trying to bring himself back up to the surface.</p><p> </p><p>The moment he breaks through the surface, Carl gasps, taking in a great big breath of air as the pounding in his head continues to pulse and throb, and the water churns violently around him. His ears are ringing, and it's without a doubt one of the worst headaches that Carl has had in his entire life. But before he can do anything other than breathe, the water pulls him back down again, further and further into the darkness up until Carl can no longer see the sky.</p><p> </p><p>Not about to give up so easily, Carl forces himself to move faster. He grits his teeth, kicking his legs as fast as he possibly can and reaching out his only usable arm as his injured one floats limply at his side. Water rushes between Carl's spread out palms, but he pays it no mind, just lifting his head and squinting his eyes as he works to move upwards.</p><p> </p><p>But no matter how much Carl tries to go in that direction, the current ends up being too strong -- it tosses him around like he's nothing more than a toy until Carl is no longer able to determine which way is up. He inhales sharply as his body hits another tree, accidentally taking in a giant lungful of water that causes him to sputter and gasp, ending with him taking in even more water into his already battered, oxygen drained body. </p><p> </p><p>The ringing in his head seems to intensify as the current grows more violent, making it hard for Carl to focus. </p><p> </p><p>Darkness is already seeping into the corner of his vision. It reminds him of when the girl from District 5 had been choking him, hands wrapped tightly around his neck as Carl tried desperately to fight back against her. Only this time, the water isn't sentient like she had been, and that meant no matter how much he tried, Carl would remain unable to fight it off. He had doomed himself to a slow and cold death, something he had always dreaded since entering this arena.</p><p> </p><p>It's getting so much harder to focus, to stay awake. It can't be long now. </p><p> </p><p>He... Carl doesn't... he wants... why..?</p><p> </p><p>But maybe it's not so bad after all -- drowning. It's not exactly peaceful, but it's without a doubt much better than being tortured and gutted by the Careers and other tributes in the arena. And at least Carl's death wouldn't be at the hands of the Careers. But he can hardly care about that at the moment. He just wants to go to sleep.</p><p> </p><p>He wants this to be over -- he wants to go home.</p><p> </p><p>He misses his mom and dad. He misses Shane. He just wants to be back in District 11 again, far away from this seemingly endless nightmare. </p><p> </p><p>His chest hurt, his head hurt, his face hurt.</p><p> </p><p>His whole body hurt.</p><p> </p><p>He's just so <em> tired... </em></p><p> </p><p>But-</p><p> </p><p>He doesn't want to die.</p><p> </p><p>Not now. Not like this. </p><p> </p><p>And though he wants nothing more than to curl up in a ball and cry, he forces himself to open his eyes, forces himself not to let death take him without putting up one last fight. The water stings his eyes, but he doesn't dare close them again as he whips his head around from side to side, trying to catch a glimpse of the sky or the leaves above. </p><p> </p><p>And once again, he stretches his uninjured arm out and kicks out his legs, black dots dancing in the corners of his eyes as he fights to get back up to the direction he prays leads to the surface. </p><p> </p><p>By some miracle, he had chosen the right direction, and after what feels like an eternity, his head pops above the surface of the water, allowing him to take in a great big breath of air. His limbs flail -- injured arm included -- as he tries to keep his head above water, but the rain continues to fall down in relentless waves, making the task much harder than it should be. </p><p> </p><p>Still, despite the near overwhelming pain and exhaustion oozing from his every pore along with literally everything else, Carl manages to keep his head above the surface. But he knows he won't be able to keep it up for long. So he finds himself reaching out with his good arm, fingers grasping for some kind of hold before eventually curling around the base of a nearby branch.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Yes! </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Carl kicks out his legs, tightening his grip on the tree and trying to pull himself up with the small amount of strength he has left in his body, but his limbs tremble and shake from the effort, and it doesn't take long for the branch to snap under his weight with a loud crack that's quickly drowned out by the rushing current. He yelps as he's thrown back into the impossibly strong wave, hands scrabbling for some kind of grip. </p><p> </p><p>He doesn't find one. </p><p> </p><p><em> Shitshitshitshitshitshit</em>-</p><p> </p><p>Panic flares in his stomach, causing him to accidentally take in a lungful of icy cold water when he's thrown back underwater. Carl resurfaces in a few moments, coughing and spluttering and trying his best to ignore the black dots dancing in the corners of his vision. He knows he isn't going to last much longer with the rate things are going. Carl needs to do something, and he needs to do it now before it's too late.</p><p> </p><p>Before he even gets the time to think of an idea, he's slammed into another tree.</p><p> </p><p>Pain erupts in his side, and he throws his uninjured hand out, scrabbling to find a grip on the wet and peeling bark. His fingers find and curl around a branch hanging above him right as another wave crashes into his back. Instead of pulling him back under, the water's momentum pushes him up, giving Carl the chance to throw both his arms and legs around the branch -- which is thankfully bigger than the last -- as if he's hugging it. </p><p> </p><p>His heart stutters in his chest, and he whimpers, squeezing his eyes shut as he struggles to catch his breath. The rain continues to fall around him, cold and icy and stingingly sharp as they splatter onto his skin. </p><p> </p><p>His body isn't in the water anymore, but he can feel it lapping at his back, steadily rising higher and higher, and he knows that it's a matter of time before this branch is submerged in it as well. He needs to get moving.</p><p> </p><p><em> Come on... </em>he urges himself on, slowly prying open his eyes as he forces his aching limbs to move. He carefully twists himself around until he's able to straddle the branch, the water lapping at his ankles. Then, he inches forward, reaching his uninjured hand out to grab a vine hanging nearby. </p><p> </p><p>He tugs on it -- once, twice -- before using it to stand on unsteady legs. He then presses his back to the trunk, eyeing the raging water beneath him, now seconds away from engulfing the branch he's standing on. </p><p> </p><p>Carl reaches for the branch closest to him, thankfully within reach, and pulls himself up, his arms vibrating with the exertion. His legs dangle for a second, and he grits his teeth, kicking his feet uselessly in the air as he tries to haul himself up. He digs his fingers into the bark of the branch, chest heaving as he struggles.</p><p> </p><p>It's a slow going process; his limbs are all aching and groaning with a mix of exhaustion and pain, and his clothes are soaked through with water, sticking to his skin with a fierce intensity. His head throbs with every heartbeat, and every movement is filled with agony as his bruised, broken, and battered body struggles to climb the tree, branch by branch. </p><p> </p><p>Carl doesn't know how high he climbs or how long he's been going for, and he doesn't have the time or energy to care. The bark is wet and peeling, making it hard to find a good grip, and he nearly slips multiple times. The water is constantly lapping at his feet, and by the time Carl feels as if he's gotten high enough to escape, his body is screaming for him to rest. So when Carl finds a cluster of branches woven into each other, strong enough to hold his weight, he collapses into it with a groan, chest heaving as the rain continues to stream down from above.</p><p> </p><p><em> I never want to move ever again, </em>he thinks.</p><p> </p><p>But after a few minutes pass, he forces himself to get up, pulling the soggy backpack from off his shoulders so he can pull out a rope to tie himself to the branches with. He doesn't want to move, but he doesn't want to fall back into the flood of water rushing below him either. </p><p> </p><p>He rests his head against the bark, and Carl's teeth chatter as he slowly winds his arms around his chest, hugging his body in an attempt to keep warm. But with the rain still falling without pause and his clothes soaking wet, his attempts are futile. The air around him is turning colder and colder, and he can slowly feel his fingers and nose turning numb. </p><p> </p><p>He closes his eyes.</p><p> </p><p>He's so tired...</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The face of the boy from District 5 is shown that night.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Seven tributes left -- him being one of them.</p><p> </p><p>There are six tributes between him and home.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>When Carl pries open his eyes on the fourteenth day in the arena, the first thing he sees is a thick canopy of leaves hanging above him, and through that canopy, he sees hints of sunlight peeking through with no signs of storm clouds. And when he forces his aching body to sit up and take a look around, he sees that the water that had flooded the world below is nowhere in sight, and the jungle is just as humid and as noisy as ever. </p><p> </p><p>Birds are cawing, bugs are buzzing, and the only sign that the flood had even happened was the dampness of his clothes, the ache in his limbs -- especially his arm -- and the various uprooted plants down on the jungle floor. Carl swallows thickly, not wanting to imagine where he would be if he hadn't been able to get up in this tree. Chances are, he wouldn't have survived the night. </p><p> </p><p>The mere thought of that sends a shiver down his spine, but thankfully his thoughts are pulled elsewhere as his stomach gives a sudden and loud grumble, demanding food. When was the last time he had eaten anyway?</p><p> </p><p>It must have been sometime before the flood, but he doesn't care. Carl grabs his backpack from where he'd wedged it in between two branches -- becoming more and more grateful by the second that he'd managed to keep a hold of it during his little 'swim.' Carefully, he unzips the bag, pulling out a soggy granola bar. </p><p> </p><p>He wrinkles his nose at the thought of eating a wet granola bar, but beggars can't be choosers in the arena or in District 11, and he'd rather have a bad meal than no meal. Honestly, he's just glad that all of his supplies survived the flood. And speaking of the flood, he wonders what reason the Gamemakers had for sending one his way in the first place. From what he's seen in previous Games, the weather is simply a prop used by the Gamemakers to force tributes together or spice things up a bit, but he has no clue which one is the case for him. </p><p> </p><p>He wonders if they had unleashed the flood on the whole arena or if it was just this part.</p><p> </p><p>Judging by the fact there had only been one death, he doubts it had been the whole arena. There is no way a flood that big would only kill a single person. Well, maybe that was a lie. Perhaps the boy from District 5 had simply been unlucky or something, but he doubts it. </p><p> </p><p>Carl tears off the wrapper of the granola bar clean off and takes a relatively small bite, grimacing at the wet texture. God, if he ever gets out of here, he is never touching a granola bar again. Despite his disgust, Carl forces himself to take another bite, a bit bigger this time due to his rush to get something into his near empty stomach. He figures it won't be a good idea to climb down from the tree with a piercing headache. </p><p> </p><p>When he finishes the granola bar, he glances down at his left arm, which he now realizes is bruised and somewhat swollen. He doesn't think he broke it -- his arm would be hurting a whole lot more if that was the case -- but a swollen limb is never a good sign. Does he still have bandages left in his backpack? Carl does a quick peek inside, and while there are bandages leftover from fixing his fingers, they are just as soggy as everything else is. </p><p> </p><p>He shakes his head, sighing in annoyance as he zips the backpack up again with his right arm. When Carl's done, he looks down at the swollen arm, eyes not moving from it as he stretches it out slowly. Instantly, a flash of pain tears through the injured limb, and he hisses, quickly snatching it back to his chest. <em> Yeah, okay, not doing that again, </em>he thinks, rapidly blinking as he rubs small circles into his left wrist.</p><p> </p><p>He drinks a bit of water as he sits in the tree, protected by the colossal branches of the jungle tree, swatting away bugs and letting his soggy clothes dry out in the warmth of the day. As Carl sits there, he finds himself wondering if he really should leave the tree's safety. Having high ground is always a plus in the arena -- a perfect hiding spot too. But deep down, he knows he can't stay here. He needs to keep moving because otherwise, the Gamemakers would find some way to draw him out, and from what he's seen in previous Games, the Gamemakers have some pretty... unpleasant ways of moving tributes to where they want them.</p><p> </p><p>So he slides his backpack back over his shoulders, ignoring the painful twinge his arm gives as he slowly starts the climb back down to the jungle floor. It's around ten times harder to climb with an injured arm, slower too, but Carl manages just fine. It feels like hours before his feet actually touch the ground, but he makes it there in one piece, and that's what counts.</p><p> </p><p>He doesn't know what direction to walk in or where he even wants to go, so Carl just picks one at random and prays that he isn't about to walk right into a trap of some sort. Or, god forbid, the <em> Careers. </em> He knows at this point that they would kill him painfully if they ever caught him, and a painful death is the very last thing Carl wants. </p><p> </p><p>Walking through the jungle is more easily said than done, and he says this because, as it turns out, the terrain isn't nearly as untouched by the weather the Gamemakers had unleashed on it as it first seemed. The ground is still muddy from the rainfall and flood, making it so much harder to navigate than it had been twenty-four hours previous.</p><p> </p><p>It's slippery as hell, and Carl finds himself slipping not long after he starts walking, crashing to the muddy jungle floor with a startled yelp. He lands on his shoulder, jarring it and knocking the breath right out of him as the throbbing in his swollen left arm worsens, and he lies there for a few seconds, staring at the canopy above, struggling to breathe as he blinks back the tears of pain welling in his eyes. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Come on, Grimes. You just fell. It's nothing compared to last night.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>So slowly, ever so slowly, he drags himself up, his entire body aching. </p><p> </p><p>He stands there for a second, hugging his injured arm to his chest as he wipes the wetness from his eyes with the other.</p><p> </p><p>And then he walks.</p><p> </p><p>He walks and walks and walks, and even when his stomach starts growing a couple hours later, he doesn't stop moving. Hunger is a near constant at this point -- he can handle it. Plus, District 11 pretty much never had enough food for everyone, so he had spent almost his entire life just being hungry. He just needs to have a little snack every few hours, and he's good. Also it's not like the Games will be going on for much longer -- with only seven tributes left, it's bound to end soon. Whether he wins or dies, hunger won't matter.</p><p> </p><p>It's... kind of weird, to be honest. To think that Carl has already spent fourteen days in the area -- that he's actually survived a whole two weeks in the Games when he first thought he wouldn't last a single day. He supposes that Daryl's training and Shane's advice had really come in handy after all. While he knows the chances of him winning the Games, even with there being only a few tributes left, are low, the fact that he's managed to last this long (all alone, at that) is an achievement by itself. It makes him feel... sort of proud?</p><p> </p><p>He hates that he feels this way. Because he shouldn't be feeling proud that he's managed to survive this long in a game that never should have even existed in the first place, but he can't help it. Not many tributes are fortunate enough -- or unfortunate enough depending on how one looks at it -- to make it two weeks. </p><p> </p><p>A loud squeal from nearby snaps Carl out of his thoughts, and he nearly jumps right out of his skin, spinning around in the direction of the sound, eyes scanning the area as his heart stutters from fear in his chest. His fingers curl around the handle of his knife still in his pocket, and he pulls it out with a trembling hand. </p><p> </p><p>Carl strains his ears, listening as the squealing continues and relaxing somewhat when he realizes it doesn't belong to another tribute. No human sounds like that -- it's probably a jungle animal or something. But what would cause an animal to make a sound like that?</p><p> </p><p>Did it get attacked by another animal? That would make sense -- these animals may be made by the Gamemakers, but they are still animals, and they need to eat something other than tributes if they get hungry. But as Carl listens to the squealing that has yet to fade despite having been a full minute since it's started, he finds himself doubting that. </p><p> </p><p>Wouldn't a predator have finished its prey off by now?</p><p> </p><p>Carl hesitates, his mind reeling. He really shouldn't be thinking too hard about this -- he has no idea how animals act in the arena, so what he should be doing is putting as much distance between him and the squealing as possible. But for some reason, that doesn't sit well with him. Something is screaming at him in the back of his mind, nagging him to figure it out. </p><p> </p><p><em> Daryl is probably screaming himself hoarse at this point because of how many stupid decisions I'm making, </em>Carl thinks as he starts walking in the direction of the noise, trying his best to keep his movements silent. Which is a task made extremely hard by the squelching of the mud beneath his feet. </p><p> </p><p>After a few minutes, he comes across a small clearing, and in the middle of it, he sees a... pig? But it doesn't look like a pig, not entirely. </p><p> </p><p>Whatever it is, it's caught in a trap -- a snare, he recalls after a moment -- and it darts around in short bursts, kicking out its feet, one of which is the one caught in the trap, as it tries in vain to escape. Carl watches it from where he stands at the edge of the clearing, wondering what he should do. </p><p> </p><p>Carl isn't stupid -- he knows that another tribute must have set this trap and said tribute can still be nearby. He should be running as far as he can in the opposite direction. But when he starts to do just that, he finds that he can't bring himself to do it.  </p><p> </p><p>So with a heavy sigh, he finds himself crouching in the bushes nearby, his curiosity getting the better of him once more. </p><p> </p><p>Guess there really is a reason they say 'curiosity killed the cat.'</p><p> </p><p>Carl watches in boredom as the pig continues to thrash around in the snare, squealing constantly. It gets on his nerves quickly, and while he debates going out there to kill it just to shut it up, he doesn't want to abandon his hiding spot. Not yet. And so he sits there, watching for what feels like, and probably is, a few hours. </p><p> </p><p>Just as he begins to wonder if he should kill the pig and leave, the bushes on the opposite side of the clearing start rustling unnaturally, and if possible, the pig squealing grows even louder.</p><p> </p><p>"Jesus Christ," a voice complains, and Carl's breath picks up as a familiar face slips out from the bushes, "this thing is <em> loud." </em></p><p> </p><p>"It's a <em> hog," </em> says Beth dryly, stepping out from the bushes behind Benjamin, "of course the thing is going to be loud."</p><p> </p><p>Carl's heart beats like a drum in his chest. It's Beth and Ben. Oh god, they're okay! They're alive! Beth's blonde hair is matted and tangled and, at some point, had been pulled up into a messy bun of some sort, and Ben's isn't in much better shape -- layers upon layers of dirt cover their faces, both of which seem to be so much thinner than before, but it's <em> them, </em> and they're <em> alive, </em> and they're <em> safe </em>and-</p><p> </p><p>And-</p><p> </p><p>"I'm honestly just surprised we caught something," Benjamin admits, twirling a spear around between his hands as he approaches the struggling animal, eyeing it warily, "how long do you think it'll feed us?"</p><p> </p><p>Beth shrugs, "a couple of days, give or take." She moves forward, gently prying the spear out of Benjamin's hands and taking the weapon into her own, "here, let me do it."</p><p> </p><p>Benjamin nods, looking a tad queasy as he stumbles backward a few steps. "Yeah, you go ahead. I'll just... stand back here."</p><p> </p><p>Beth sends the boy an amused look before refocusing her attention on the pig (hog?) caught in her snare. She holds the spear up, taking a deep breath before plunging the spearhead into the animal's side. The hog gives one loud, drawn-out squeal before falling silent for the last time, body going limp. </p><p> </p><p>Blood spurts out onto the dew-covered grass as Beth pulls the spear out, putting the weapon to the side before crouching down and freeing the dead hog's foot from the trap so she can pick it up. Carl watches as she attaches the corpse to her backpack, and as she does this, Benjamin steps forward to reset the snare, his face pale as he eyes the blood on the ground beside it. </p><p> </p><p>"Come on," Beth says, crossing her arms as Benjamin climbs to his feet, "who knows what that hog's squealing attracted - the last thing we need is for some bloodthirsty big cat to come after us because we stole its food."</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Leaving?! </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Carl feels his stomach drop, and before he can convince himself not to, he's moving.</p><p> </p><p>"Beth! Ben!" he calls, stumbling out from the bushes with legs still aching from being swept up in that flood the day before. And before he realizes what's happening, he's collapsing into the grass not far from where the two teens now stand, his legs unable to handle the sudden weight put onto them after spending hours crouching motionless in the bushes. </p><p> </p><p>Both of the older tributes whirl around, staring at him in shock. A choked "Carl?" escapes Benjamin's lips after a beat of silence, and this is what snaps Beth out of her own stupor. The blonde girl darts forward, a mix of concern, relief, and disbelief flickering across her face as she moves toward Carl, crouching beside his fallen form.</p><p> </p><p>"Carl?" she whispers, resting a hesitant hand on his back. "Jesus... what happened to you?"</p><p> </p><p>He feels the tears begin to burn in his eyes, and, without even thinking about it, he launches himself forward right into Beth's arms, burying his face into the crook of his neck and letting the tears fall. "You're here! You're really here! I... I was so scared - I tried to find you - was scared - hungry - and then the Careers-" Carl cuts himself off, flashes of what happened flooding into his mind as Beth's arms wind tightly around him, resting her chin on his forehead as she rubbed small circles into his back comfortingly. </p><p> </p><p>"Hey... it's okay, it's okay, you're with us now," the older girl whispers to him, gently carding her other hand through Carl's hair. </p><p> </p><p>Benjamin, finally snapping out of his own shock, runs forward as well, concern lighting his features as he takes in Carl's battered appearance. He crouches down beside him and Beth, and seconds later, Benjamin's eyes land on Carl's swollen left arm.</p><p> </p><p>The older boy blanches. "Shit, that does not look good."</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>"How did you mess your arm up?" Beth asks as she wraps the injured limb with (thankfully dry) bandages, her eyes alight with worry and thinly veiled curiosity. Benjamin, who is sitting on a rock nearby, leans in at her question, looking just as, if not more, curious. </p><p> </p><p>The three of them are sitting in a camp of sorts -- one Beth and Benjamin had set up a few hours before Carl found them. The trees around them are as large and looming as the rest of the forest, the vines and leaves hanging down from the branches hiding them from view of anyone who may pass by. </p><p> </p><p>The hog Beth and Benjamin caught in their snare is now hanging up over a small campfire, and the smell of roasting meat makes his mouth water and his stomach twist painfully with hunger. Because of this, Carl spends a lot of time eyeing the cooking animal, impatience thrumming through him as he waits for it to be done, but at the sound of Beth's voice, Carl tears his eyes away, looking up at the two teens as he processes the question he'd been asked. </p><p> </p><p>"Oh, um, I'm not entirely sure," says Carl, eyebrows furrowing, "there was a flood, and I got caught up in it... I think my arm must have hit something in that."</p><p> </p><p>"Shit, you were there when it happened?" asks Benjamin, wincing in sympathy. "Me and Beth were chilling on a cliffside above the river when the rain started, and the flood never got high enough to reach us. Being in there must have sucked."</p><p> </p><p>Merely thinking about the rushing water sends a shiver down Carl's spine. "Yeah, it did." Then, he frowns, his gaze moving to his left arm that Beth is still wrapping. "Quick question, though. Why do you guys have this many bandages?"</p><p> </p><p>Beth lets out a snort, shaking her head as a smile creeps upon her face.</p><p> </p><p>"Ben hurt his foot a couple days ago when he got caught in one of our own snares-" Carl laughs, and Benjamin lets out a loud groan, "-and we got sent some bandages. We had some leftover, so..." Beth shrugs, eyes not leaving Carl's arm.</p><p> </p><p>Carl nods as he mulls this over, glancing toward Benjamin. "Is your foot okay?"</p><p> </p><p>Benjamin waves a hand dismissively. "It's fine. It hurts a bit, but I didn't break it." </p><p> </p><p>In Benjamin's voice is a hint of unease and relief, and Carl can understand why the older boy feels that way all too well. </p><p> </p><p>In the arena, running was a big part of how tributes stay alive, and with a broken foot, a person was unable to run. If Benjamin had broken his foot, he would be dead.</p><p> </p><p>Beth pulls hard on the bandages, tightening them, and he winces at the pain it causes. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees her leaning back a bit, eyeing her work with a look of satisfaction lighting her face. "Okay," she says after a second, giving Carl a comforting pat on the shoulder, "all done."</p><p> </p><p>Upon hearing her words, he glances down at his left arm, which is now completely wrapped in a thick gauze. "Is it bad?" he asks, swallowing down the lump in his throat -- while a broken arm wouldn't hinder him as much as a broken leg, it still puts him at a severe disadvantage when it comes to fighting other tributes, something that could end up killing him in the long run. </p><p> </p><p>"Surprisingly, you didn't end up breaking it," Beth explains quietly, "I think you sprained it or somethin' like that, but I don't know for sure, and we don't have much to treat it with either way, so..."</p><p> </p><p>Carl nods, eyes not moving from his arm as he stretches it out slowly. Instantly, a bolt of pain shoots through his arm, and he yelps, swiftly pulling it back so he can hug it to his chest. "Thank you again," he says, blinking back tears as he runs his fingers up and down the bandaged limb. "I just - I really thought I was going to be alone the whole time, and...." Carl swallows thickly, "it's just... it's good to see you guys."</p><p> </p><p>"It's good to see you too." Benjamin sits down beside Beth and Carl, ruffling the younger boy's hair much to his chagrin. "You're safe with us now, kiddo."</p><p> </p><p>Carl wrinkles his nose. "Don't call me that."</p><p> </p><p>Ben grins. "Right, got it." And then, the three of them go quiet. </p><p> </p><p>He hates the quiet. Always had.</p><p> </p><p>He hates it a lot more now. </p><p> </p><p>"Did you run into the Careers?" asks Carl once a couple of minutes pass by without a single word being spoken, breaking the silence. He recalls the conversation he overheard before stealing from the group, and though he knows that the Careers had been unable to catch the two, the knowledge does little to put his worries to rest.</p><p> </p><p>Both teens tense up, exchanging unsure glances, and he already regrets asking because now he's made the atmosphere unbelievably tense, and that's the very last thing he had wanted to do with his new allies. </p><p> </p><p>"Did you?" asks Beth after a couple beats of silence, eyeing him with a masked expression lighting her face.</p><p> </p><p>Carl nods. "Yeah." He recalls the way they had run him up that tree after he had stolen from them, thinks of the lifeless bodies of both Anne and the girl from 4 as a grimace crosses his face. "They don't like me very much." </p><p> </p><p>The two teens exchange looks again, but this time, it's of surprise and something else he can't quite place, and Carl starts playing with the hem of his shirt, praying that they wouldn't ask any questions.</p><p> </p><p>"They don't like us either," Benjamin says at last, "then again, I kind of painted a huge target on my back by beating the shit out of Ron during training."</p><p> </p><p><em> You aren't the only one, </em>Carl thinks with a wince. Not only did he steal from the Careers -- something already painted a giant target on his back -- but he killed two of their own as well. The next time the Careers come across even the slightest hint of him being around, they are going to stop at nothing to find, catch, and kill him. And he doubts that they'll do it painlessly either -- whatever they have planned for him is not going to be pleasant, and this only further convinces Carl to make sure they don't get that chance. </p><p> </p><p>If he's going to die in a few days, then Carl isn't going to let it be at the Career's hands -- no way in hell. </p><p> </p><p>Beth barks out a harsh laugh, one that sounds odd coming from someone as kind-hearted as her. "There would be a target on our backs either way," she says, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, "there are only seven tributes left - four if you don't count the Careers."    </p><p> </p><p>"So that means only the girl from District 10 and the Careers are left..." Carl says after a second or two, a cold realization settling in his stomach.</p><p> </p><p>It's only a matter of time before they make it to the final five, and after that... the end of the Games isn't far behind.</p><p> </p><p>"Yeah... I guess." Benjamin mumbles, looking grim.</p><p> </p><p>Carl looks around, gaze flitting between the two tributes. In only a couple days, either one or none of them are going to be alive.</p><p> </p><p>He isn't looking forward to that.</p><p> </p><p>And just like that, the silence returns, and this time, no one bothers to break it.</p><p> </p><p>The hog finishes cooking, and the twisting pain in his stomach fades into nothing. Beth stores the little meat they have leftover into her own backpack, and Carl shares a couple apple slices with the two older teens for them to munch on as the sun slowly dips below the horizon -- the world growing dark.</p><p> </p><p>Beth puts out the fire, and Carl shivers as the jungle's cold air settles around them. He almost asks if she can light it again, but he bites that urge down, knowing that the smoke from a fire would be an easy way for the Careers to track them down. </p><p> </p><p>Benjamin perches himself in a nearby tree for guard duty and lends Carl his sleeping bag in the meantime. And though Carl initially protests, both of the older teens insist that he needs his rest. </p><p> </p><p>So with only a little bit of reluctance, he climbs into the sleeping bag, and the very moment Carl's eyes fall shut, he's out like a light. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>When he wakes and pulls himself out of the sleeping bag in the morning, Beth informs him that no one had died that night.</p><p> </p><p>Carl feels horrible for even thinking it, but he finds himself wishing that someone did.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Carl, Beth, and Ben continue on for two more days without incident before the Gamemakers finally start to mix things up a bit. </p><p>  </p><p>On the sixteenth day, there are only seven of them left. </p><p> </p><p>The end of the Games is drawing near.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Benjamin is chatting cheerfully, something that both baffles, relieves, and annoys Carl. How can someone remain so cheerful at a time like this? Carl doesn't know, and he doesn't really care much either. After being alone for fourteen days with no company outside his own thoughts, Carl really misses the sound of talking. And Benjamin doesn't disappoint. He chatters on and on and on about things that Carl doesn't understand very much. And neither Carl nor Beth try and stop him because it's better than the silence -- <em> anything </em>is better than the silence. </p><p> </p><p>The three of them are seated in a small meadow they had found, taking a rest after a long day of walking. Benjamin is the only one talking -- with either Beth or Carl piping in every couple of minutes to keep the conversation going for a few seconds longer. Benjamin's voice is a constant flow that breaks the once suffocating silence as he busies his hands with trying to untangle his horribly knotted hair. Needless to say, there is little success on his part. Carl doesn't bother hiding a grin, turning his back to the older boy as he starts tearing up clumps of grass beneath him. </p><p> </p><p>Beth starts working her hands through Carl's hair after a second or two, humming softly under her breath as she works to get the leaves, twigs, and tangles out of Carl's dark locks. She has a little more success than Benjamin had with his own, probably because she can actually see what she's doing. And while each movement pulls at Carl's hair in a way he would probably find annoying in any other situation, he knows that she needs something to do with her hands or else she'll be tearing clumps out of her own hair, so he lets her do it without complaint.</p><p> </p><p>It kind of feels nice, but he's not about to admit it.</p><p> </p><p>Carl stretches out his left arm. It still aches and throbs half the time, and he gives the injured limb an annoyed glare. The pain had gotten better to manage after the first day, but any sudden movements usually end with Carl hunched over on the ground, clutching his arm to his chest as a string of curses escaped from him. Beth had reprimanded him for swearing each time it happened, and while Carl rolls his eyes every time, he finds that he enjoys the sense of normalcy that it brings to their small group.</p><p> </p><p>It's funny how things can actually be considered somewhat normal here in the arena. This is the goddamn Hunger Games, after all -- nothing in this place is supposed to feel that way! But despite this, Carl finds that he doesn't care as much as he probably should. Today is more likely than not one of the final few days he has left to live, and Carl is going to spend that time being happy with his friends -- they're friends... right?</p><p> </p><p>He hopes they are.</p><p> </p><p>Carl lets out a hiss of pain as Beth tugs at a particularly insistent knot in his hair. The blonde apologizes but otherwise continues on with cleaning up Carl's hair. Out of the three of them, Carl definitely is the messiest -- though he blames that on around two weeks of malnutrition, exhaustion, dehydration, and sleeping in trees. If he had been with Beth and Benjamin from the very beginning, he probably wouldn't be as messy as he is now. </p><p> </p><p>Not that he is really complaining. The fact that Carl is with them at all is enough for him right now.</p><p> </p><p>Beth withdraws her hands from his hair suddenly, climbing up to her feet with a grimace painting her face. At Carl and Benjamin's curious looks, she shrugs. "Need to use the bathroom."</p><p> </p><p>Ah. Got it.</p><p> </p><p>"Be careful," says Carl because this arena can be unpredictable as hell, and the blonde gives him a small smile before walking off, disappearing into the bushes seconds later.</p><p> </p><p>Benjamin resumes his chatter not long after, and Carl finds himself spacing out once more, his thoughts drifting over to his family -- which is honestly something that they often do these days. He wonders what they're thinking of him now -- after knowing that he's killed three people, three <em> kids. </em>Do they hate him for it? Are they disgusted by him? Perhaps they don't even want Carl back anymore. And how can he blame them? Who would want a murderer for a child?</p><p> </p><p>No.</p><p> </p><p>He can't think about that right now.</p><p> </p><p>He can't think about that <em> ever. </em></p><p> </p><p>His parents love him to bits -- Carl knows that, but Carl also knows that even if he does manage to get out of this place alive -- which he isn't -- that Carl isn't going to be the same boy he had been before. </p><p> </p><p>He's not going to be the son that they knew. The one that they loved and raised.</p><p> </p><p>He isn't going to be their Carl.</p><p> </p><p>He isn't going to be Shane's champ, his mom's peanut, or his dad's sunshine. Not anymore.</p><p> </p><p>Carl squeezes his eyes shut, exhaling slowly into the silence of the evening.</p><p> </p><p>Wait... silence?</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Shit -- Benjamin- </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Carl spins around suddenly, leaping up to his feet as a veil of terror closes over his heart in an icy grip. His knees buckle underneath him, and he feels a scream get caught in his throat as he takes in the horrible sight before him.</p><p> </p><p>Benjamin is sitting in the exact same place he had been before, but his eyes are blown wide -- filled with confusion and terror and pain as his mouth drops open, no sound escaping him as his skin rapidly drains itself of color. </p><p> </p><p>Slowly, Carl's gaze drifts a little bit downward.</p><p> </p><p>There, right in the center of his stomach, is the point of a spear protruding from the blond's skin. Blood spurts out, and Carl watches as a faint acceptance settles in Benjamin's eyes before they flutter shut for the last time.</p><p> </p><p>A cannon sounds.</p><p> </p><p>The spear is ripped out.</p><p> </p><p>Benjamin drops to the ground, dead.</p><p> </p><p>He freezes in place, his mouth dropping open in a gasp of horror. Before Carl can even begin to register what had just occurred, he's stumbling backward, moving away just in time for a knife to go whistling past his head, missing him by mere inches. This is what snaps him into action. Survival instincts take over within moments, and Carl leaps to the side as Randall, who is hovering over Benjamin's lifeless corpse, throws the bloodied spear right at him.</p><p> </p><p>Carl hits the ground elbows first, and though it sends a shockwave of pain racing through him, he wastes no time climbing back to his feet, backpedaling as he scrambles to pull out his own knife.</p><p> </p><p>But before he can do that, his back collides with something horrifyingly solid -- something that hadn't been there before.</p><p> </p><p>Carl whirls around, his heart thundering in his chest as a leering face comes into view.</p><p> </p><p>It's Ron, and the girl from District 2 is standing not far away.</p><p> </p><p>The older boy grins, his eyes gleaming as he twirls a large hunting knife around between his fingertips. It's the same type of knife Carl used to kill Anne and the girl from 4. </p><p> </p><p>"Hello there, eleven," says Ron, and Carl only gets a moment to stare in horror -- thoughts of <em> 'oh god, where's Beth? Is she okay, or did the Careers get her too?' </em> racing through his mind -- before Ron is lunging forward, striking Carl right across the face with his fist and sending him tumbling to the ground.</p><p> </p><p>Carl cries out as he hits the hard-packed dirt with a thud, the air all but rushing out of his lungs as he instinctively raises up his hands to protect himself, softening his fall enough to keep him from splitting his skull open. Still, his head hits the ground <em> hard </em>, making Carl's vision flash black for a split second as his ears begin to ring. </p><p> </p><p>A heavy weight descends upon him seconds later, and a knee is jabbed into his stomach, pressing Carl hard against the ground and halting him from getting up. Ron's mud-covered face hovers above him, his eyes wild, crazed, and angry. The Career looks more frazzled than he had the last time Carl had seen him, thinner too -- his face gaunt and narrow -- but despite these similarities, there is something in his eyes that hadn't been there before, and it sends a shiver of fear up Carl's spine. </p><p> </p><p>"Find the girl!" Ron shouts as he raises his hand to bring the knife down on Carl's chest, and Randall, who still remains by Benjamin's body, doesn't waste a second running into the trees. After a moment, the girl from 2 follows.</p><p> </p><p>Carl feels his heart stop, and his hands shoot out right as Ron swings down, the knife's blade gleaming in the sunlight. His fingers curl around Ron's wrist, stopping the knife's descent in the nick of time, and the movement causes a streak of pain to tear through his injured arm. The Career above him actually growls, his knee slamming into Carl's stomach again and again as he fights to plunge the knife into the younger boy's neck. </p><p> </p><p>While Carl manages to keep the knife away from him, he knows he won't be able to keep it up for long -- especially with his arm being the way it is. Not only that, but Ron is older, bigger, and stronger than Carl is, so despite his struggling, the knife's point continues to press closer and closer to the skin of his neck. Tears blur his vision, and Carl kicks his legs out, again and again, trying to find some way to dislodge the Career.</p><p> </p><p>Randall isn't back yet, and Carl knows it's only a matter of time before he is. He needs to get out from under Ron before that happens.</p><p> </p><p>And oh god -- what about Beth? Where is she? Was she aware of what's happening?</p><p> </p><p>Carl writhes around as the point of the knife cuts against his throat, blood welling up in tiny droplets, slowly starting to trail down his neck. All it would take is for Ron to press it in a little deeper -- for him to slide the blade across his throat -- and it would all be over. There would be no do-overs. He would be dead.</p><p> </p><p>Beth would be dead.</p><p> </p><p>The panic blooming in his chest worsens, and he thrashes beneath Ron a little bit more, trying to find some way to remove the older boy's heavy weight from him. One thought, one <em> single </em> thought, bounces around through Carl's head over and over and over again: <em> stay alive. </em>He can't let Ron finish him off here. He just can't. </p><p> </p><p>This isn't how he wants to go.</p><p> </p><p>He doesn't want to go at all.</p><p> </p><p><em> Roll, kick, throw punches - do anythin' you can to get him off you, </em>a voice sounding eerily similar to Daryl whispers in his mind, and Carl does. With all the strength he can muster, Carl slams his knee right into Ron's stomach, causing the Career to flinch back, his grip on the knife loosening, and this gives Carl the time needed to lung at the older boy, sending the two toppling into the grass once more. </p><p> </p><p>They roll once, twice, three times, and the knife falls from Ron's hands during the struggle, rendering the Career weaponless -- if Carl can get his own knife from out of his pocket, he can gain the upper hand. With this in mind, Carl drags his nails across Ron's face as they roll for the fourth time, drawing a hiss from the older boy as blood wells up from the scratches.</p><p> </p><p>"That was for Ben, you bastard," Carl snarls.</p><p> </p><p>Ron just laughs: the sound just as horrible and just as ugly as it had been days ago when Carl had first run into them. They roll again, and Carl's injured arm is aching and throbbing in protest, begging for a rest, but he forces himself to ignore it as he struggles to gain the upper hand. There's no time to rest -- not now. </p><p> </p><p>The blast of a cannon echoes around them.</p><p> </p><p>Carl's heart stops, and he prays that it isn't for Beth.</p><p> </p><p>"You'll be dead soon too," Ron hisses, managing to find a hold on both of Carl's arms, and in a matter of seconds, they're rolling again, and Ron ends up on top, a near maniacal smile on his face. "Just like your stupid little friends and all the people you killed."</p><p> </p><p>His words spark something within Carl, something dark and angry and cold, something he's only felt toward one person in his life.</p><p> </p><p>He tilts his head back until it rests on the grassy ground, and before the Career on top of him can do so much as blink, he's lunging forward, slamming his forehead into Ron's.</p><p> </p><p>Carl's vision flashes white for a split second, and it feels as if everything had exploded around him. His head screams in pain, and he slumps to the ground, Ron's weight no longer crushing him in a suffocating grip. He tries to get himself to move, but all he can do is lie there, ears ringing as he stares up at the cloudy blue sky. </p><p> </p><p>Had the sky always been that blue? He doesn't think it has -- it's kind of morbid, really. That so much had gone to shit on such a beautiful day. Though it's also sort of nice: at least he would feel the sun on his skin one last time before his death. He knows that isn't a luxury many tributes in the Games can have. But... but he doesn't want to die... doesn't want to... to...</p><p> </p><p>Distantly, he can hear shouting, but he pays it little attention. There's something warm and wet trickling down the side of his face, and when he reaches a hand to bring to his forehead, his fingers come back sticky and stained crimson. </p><p> </p><p>Blood.</p><p> </p><p>That can't be a good sign. </p><p> </p><p><em> Get up, Grimes, </em> his mind screams. <em> Get the hell out of there!  </em></p><p> </p><p>He doesn't want to get up, but he doesn't have a choice.</p><p> </p><p>He needs to get up. </p><p> </p><p>A shadow falls across his motionless form, and a faint groan escapes Carl's lips.</p><p> </p><p>This is it.</p><p> </p><p>"What did he do to you?!"</p><p> </p><p>Carl gasps at the voice, squinting as he tries to focus his eyes on the shape looming above him. His vision swims, and black dots dance in the corner of his eyes, making it hard to figure out who it is.</p><p> </p><p>The figure crouches down beside him, and he flinches as hands wrap themself around his waist, pulling him into their side. Carl struggles to get up. But this time, with his body leaning into another, the struggle isn't nearly as bad. </p><p> </p><p>"Come on..." the voice whispers, and the shouting grows louder.</p><p> </p><p>Slowly, Carl's vision starts to clear, and his mind grows a little more coherent. He looks up at the person he's leaning into, and his heart does a leap when his eyes lands on their face -- her face. </p><p> </p><p>"Beth?" he murmurs.</p><p> </p><p>His head is aching something fierce, and nausea churns deep within his gut, making him think he might be about to throw up whatever remains of his earlier lunch. Instead of responding, Beth urges him onwards, glancing to Ron's limp form sprawled out on the grass nearby. The Career clearly isn't dead, judging by the rise and fall of his chest. But Beth doesn't stop to try and finish him off. </p><p> </p><p>"Come on..." Beth repeats, a hand on his back as she pushes him onward. Carl's vision swims, and he squeezes his eyes shut as he forces himself to keep going, a little faster this time. </p><p> </p><p>A low groan from nearby causes Carl to glance behind him -- Ron is blinking open his eyes, rubbing at his forehead that's painted red with blood. The Career's sharp gaze lands on Beth and Carl, both of whom are making their escape, and immediately, a snarl is set on his face. The older boy staggers to his feet, reaching into his front pocket where Carl can see some sort of bulge -- another weapon, no doubt -- and that's when Beth looks behind her too, eyes widening when she sees what Ron is doing. </p><p> </p><p>She pushes Carl toward the trees, her face frantic. "Run!"</p><p> </p><p>So he does.</p><p> </p><p>Carl doesn't even try and protest to her command. He darts forward, moving as fast as his feet can carry him. Despite the throbbing pain in his skull, Carl doesn't dare stop. All he can see is the looming trees of the jungle -- a place where they can hide and find cover, a place where he and Beth can regroup and be safe -- and he urges himself to go faster and faster, heart pounding against his chest so hard he's surprised it doesn't burst right out.</p><p> </p><p>Beth is behind him: he can hear her. She's pushing him forward whenever he slows, and when he spares a quick glance over his shoulder, he sees the determination gleaming in her eyes -- grief is there too, and he knows it's for Benjamin. His heart aches at the thought of his dead friend, and Carl pulls his eyes away from her face, looking forward even if all he wants to do is burst into tears and go back for Ben's body. </p><p> </p><p>But he can't do that.</p><p> </p><p>So he does the only thing left for him to do.</p><p> </p><p>He runs.</p><p> </p><p>They had almost made it to the safety of the trees when a shot rang out.</p><p> </p><p>Carl whips his head around again despite the headache it causes, his stomach dropping when he sees the gleam of metal in Ron's hand, a faint plume of smoke rising from the barrel of the weapon.</p><p> </p><p>Ron had a gun. Of course he did.</p><p> </p><p>And Beth lets out a pain-filled scream, falling to her knees as she clutches at her right shoulder that is now stained red. Carl pulls to a stop without thinking about it, spinning around and hoping he has the time to get her back to her feet-</p><p> </p><p>Another shot sounds.</p><p> </p><p>Everything explodes into a rush of hot, searing pain. Pain that was like nothing he's ever felt before.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Pain. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> So much pain. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>All coherent thought drains out of Carl's mind as a white hot pain spreads across the right side of his face. </p><p> </p><p>He screams. Falls to the ground.</p><p> </p><p>He hears Ron laugh.</p><p> </p><p>He feels blood pour down his face.</p><p> </p><p>Everything goes red. </p><p> </p><p>It feels like the whole world had exploded around him along with his face -- like fireworks are going off in his brain. His vision blurs, and Carl only gets a split second to see Ron, his expression gleeful, picking his way through the long grass before everything goes to chaos.</p><p> </p><p>He can hear Beth let out an enraged scream, and he hears Randall's (did that mean the girl from 2 is dead?) exclamation of surprise. All of it seems so far away. There are low growls somewhere in the distance, low groaning followed by the sounds of shuffling feet, just like in his nightmares.</p><p> </p><p>He hears Ron's shout of confusion, hears Randall yelling something.</p><p> </p><p>Then there's the feeling of hands on him. Cupping his face.</p><p> </p><p>Gentle. Warm.</p><p> </p><p>Safe.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Beth? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>"-arl, Carl?! ... please... hang on... can't do this without..."</p><p> </p><p>Her voice is low and muddled. It only seems to get fainter with every word.</p><p> </p><p>There's a shout, followed by a low snarl.</p><p> </p><p>He hears Beth curse.</p><p> </p><p>"...hang on... gonna get us out of here..."</p><p> </p><p>He feels himself being lifted into the air. Hears Beth's panicked voice as he drifts further and further away.</p><p> </p><p>There's a scream. </p><p> </p><p>Everything goes black.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. The Games -- Part III</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Everything hurts. </p><p> </p><p>Everything hurts, and Carl just wants it all to stop. </p><p> </p><p>Everything hurts even when he dreams. Even when he finds himself back in the farmland of District 11 -- the sky sunny and blue as the birds sing high above and the crops flourish around him -- everything continues to hurt. His face is the worst of it all. Like someone had set the right half of it on fire, but when he looks at himself in the dusty and cracked mirror in his family's home, there isn't a single thing wrong with him. His face looks fine -- covered in dirt and sweat, but uninjured. </p><p> </p><p>But it doesn't feel that way. He feels like he's dying.  </p><p> </p><p>Carl can hear his mom somewhere in his dream, but he can't see her. She's humming an old District song she often used to lull Carl, and later on, Andre to sleep -- Carl can't remember the last time he's heard it though -- probably sometime before Andre's death. He hears his dad and Shane working in the fields, chatting and laughing with the other adults as their children climb high up into the treetops, baskets in tow. The crops are ripe and plentiful. Carl wonders if the Capitol will be satisfied by it and maybe let District 11 keep some of it. </p><p> </p><p>Probably not -- those people aren't satisfied by anything. </p><p> </p><p>The birds are chirping high above him, and Carl stares up at the sky as they flutter by. He feels a hand land onto his shoulder, and he looks up -- and there's Shane, standing above him. But... but something is wrong with him. His hair is all gone, his skin is gray, and his eyes are a murky yellow. His shirt is stained red from some kind of stab wound in his abdomen, and it's dripping with blood.</p><p> </p><p>Not-Shane lets out a low snarl, teeth ugly, chipped, and rotten as he bares them at Carl, who scrambles backward, eyes wide with a mix of shock and horror. His head swivels around, searching for his dad, but when he finds him, Carl sees that he too is in a similar state -- gray-skinned, yellow eyes, gnashing teeth that click together every few seconds. They reach for him, and suddenly Carl finds himself falling and falling and falling until he hits water.</p><p> </p><p>Water envelops him, making it impossible to breathe. Carl tries to scream, but he makes no sound. He hears his parent's anguished wails that he remembers waking up to when they had found Andre's lifeless body in his room, hears Laura calling out his name at the Reaping, hears the low snarls and growls of the creatures in the arena...</p><p> </p><p>And then...</p><p> </p><p>And then...</p><p> </p><p>And then there's darkness…</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>So, Carl isn't dead, apparently.</p><p> </p><p>That's a surprise -- he could have sworn that being shot had been the end for him. </p><p> </p><p>The reason that Carl knows that he isn't dead is because dead people don't dream. Or at least, he thinks they don't. And Carl is definitely dreaming. His dreams are strange and scattered -- one moment, Carl is at home with his mom and dad, but then Carl is picking fruits in the orchard, and then he's in the train bringing him to the Capitol, then he's at the parade, but the citizens of the Capitol are covered head to toe in blood. Blood fills the carriage that Carl stands in, and then he's back in the arena, blood oozing from his fingertips as low groans and snarls echo around him.</p><p> </p><p>Water laps at his ankles, slowly rising higher and higher until Carl can't breathe any longer. He feels hands grabbing at him, pulling his hair and closing around his throat. Carl can hear screaming from somewhere in the distance as the nightmare replays over and over and over again. Not stopping for even a moment. He sees lifeless eyes and rotting corpses, feels water filling his lungs and a horrible pain engulfing his arm, and nothing that Carl does can stop the seemingly endless onslaught of images from filling his mind. </p><p> </p><p>The only time that his mind isn't being assaulted by these horror-tainted dreams is when he's semi-conscious. He catches small snippets of reality during these brief moments -- albeit fuzzy ones. He hears a muffled voice and the rustling of leaves above the ringing in his ears. He tastes cool water in his mouth, which washes away any hint of dryness that had once been there, and he feels a stinging pain in his arm, torso, and head before reluctantly drifting back into his nightmare filled sleep once again.</p><p> </p><p>But through it all, there's a warm and comforting presence that remains by his side. One that doesn't stray from him for even a moment. </p><p> </p><p>And when Carl finally does wake -- fully this time, not half conscious and half unconscious like before -- the first thing that he notices is the pain.</p><p> </p><p>He doesn't know when exactly it starts or if it'll ever stop, but what he does know is that one moment he feels like he's floating, and then the next, there is an intense, agonizing, and burning pain resonating throughout the right side of his face. It's almost like someone had set the skin there on fire, not that Carl knows what that feels like. Still, it's the worst pain that Carl has ever gone through during his relatively short twelve years of life. It's even worse than it had been when he'd been caught in the flood, and that had been pretty bad. </p><p> </p><p>A weak and nearly inaudible whimper escapes his lips, and he tries not to cry out as the agony seems to grow stronger and stronger by the second. <em> Please... make it stop. </em></p><p> </p><p>But it doesn't. If anything, it only grows worse. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Why... why won't it stop?  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> What happened? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Carl strains his mind -- which is still foggy from a mix of sleep and what is possibly blood loss -- to try and figure out just what had happened. To try and figure out why his face hurt so much, why everything seems so befuddled and strange. </p><p> </p><p>Distantly, Carl remembers walking with Beth and Benjamin in the jungle. He remembers them taking a break for them to regain their energy. He remembers Benjamin chattering like a bird as Beth messed with his hair before eventually leaving for a quick bathroom break -- he remembers noticing Ben's sudden silence, remembers turning around, remembers seeing Benjamin staring at him with wide eyes with a spear protruding from his stomach-</p><p> </p><p>Oh god... Benjamin... he-</p><p> </p><p>He-</p><p> </p><p>He-</p><p> </p><p>Carl feels like he's about to be sick.</p><p> </p><p>But Carl can only lie there -- confusion and grief enveloping him in a dark blanket -- as things gradually start to come back in bits and pieces. He sees images of the Careers attacking, of Ron's smirking face, of Benjamin's lifeless body. Carl takes in a shaky breath, trying to make sense of his surroundings. Carl can't hear much -- his ears are ringing too loudly, and his head hurts like a bitch. What he does know is that he's lying on something hard and cold, making his back grow stiff. </p><p> </p><p>And, after a bit of struggling, Carl manages to open up his eyes, grimacing as starbursts of light start dancing above him -- bright, shiny, and blinding. He sits up carefully, wincing as his muscles begin screaming in protest. Rubbing his eyes, he finds himself freezing in place when his fingers come into contact with something on his face -- bandages, Carl concludes after a few quick seconds. <em> What the... why are there bandages on my face? </em>As he grows more and more aware, Carl begins to realize that something is very, very wrong here.</p><p> </p><p>Slowly -- oh so slowly -- Carl lifts his head up, blinking cautiously as his mind finally begins to clear a little bit. He's in a cave of some sort -- or at least, what he thinks is a cave, Carl hasn't actually seen one in person, but this looks like it can be a cave. He glances around, and after a moment, he is able to spot a small hole at the top. That must be where the light is coming from. </p><p> </p><p>Carl looks around some more, but after a few seconds, he realizes with great horror that he can only see out of his left eye -- at first, Carl had assumed that it had been because of the bandages, but then when he blinks, a shock of pain shoots through the right side of his face. And Carl realizes with a start that he can't even feel the eye there closing. In fact, Carl can't even sense the eye there at all -- it's like it isn't even there!</p><p> </p><p>Panic quickly begins to overtake him, and he shoots up, falling back down and gasping at the lightheadedness that erupts inside of him at the simple action. A few seconds pass, and he, more slowly this time, forces himself into a sitting position. Then, Carl raises his hands up to his face, desperately beginning to pull at the bandages, his heart leaping high into his throat as he starts unwrapping them from his head, praying to whatever god that may be above that he's just overreacting. But even as the first piece of the bandage falls to the ground, nothing changes. He can't see anything further to the right -- he can see the side of his nose a bit, but nothing else, even without a good portion of the bandages there.</p><p> </p><p>Carl's suspicions start to worsen. </p><p> </p><p>He practically rips the rest of the bandages right off of his head, and slowly, Carl brings his hand to his face. His fingers descend onto the area just below his eye, and he gasps at the flare of pain that he feels the moment he makes contact. Hurriedly, Carl pulls his hand away from his face, his breath quickening as he looks down. Then, as if things aren't bad enough, Carl realizes with dawning horror that his fingertips are now stained with blood. His blood. </p><p> </p><p>What the... what the hell? What is even going on? Is... is... is his eye...? Carl swallows down the lump that had begun forming in his throat before starting to raise his hand back up to the wound on his face. But before he can touch it again, he hears a voice -- a familiar one.</p><p> </p><p>"Oh my god! Carl?!"</p><p> </p><p>Carl gasps at the sound of Beth's -- very panicked -- voice, his hand dropping back down to his side, and he looks up right as she comes into view, appearing from the shadows of the cave. She looks frazzled -- that's the first thing Carl actually notices about her. Dark bags are hanging underneath her eyes, dirt and mud cakes her face, leaves and twigs are tangled in her hair -- making it look more brown than blond, but the thing that really grabs his attention is the large bandage wrapped tightly around her shoulder.</p><p> </p><p>It isn't bleeding, which is a good sign, but splotches of blood had already stained the material, looking more brown than red. But before Carl can say anything to her -- before she can say anything else to him -- Carl is hit with a sudden wave of memories. Ron leaning above him, the two of them rolling around in the dirt -- Beth helping him get up after Carl had headbutted Ron, a scream, a gunshot, and then- </p><p> </p><p>There's Groaning. Snarling. Confused shouting. More yelling as the growling gets louder, and-</p><p> </p><p>-and then Ron firing a gun, the bullet going straight into Carl's eye...</p><p> </p><p>No, <em> no... </em></p><p> </p><p>"Hey, hey, Carl - it's okay! It's okay!" Beth practically falls to her knees beside him, quickly picking up on his rapidly growing panic. The older girl grabs his hands, giving them a gentle squeeze. "Carl... Carl, look at me..."</p><p> </p><p>Beth's voice is calming, gentle -- soothing. Carl looks up at her.</p><p> </p><p>"Benjamin-" Carl chokes out, his mind wandering to the cheerful blond that had been so quick to jump to his defense back during training, "he..." another spasm of pain rips through his face, "my... my eye-" Beth flinches back, her face falling slightly. Then, she gives the tiniest of nods, sending Carl a sad smile. But it comes out as more of a grimace if anything. </p><p> </p><p>"I know," she whispers hoarsely, and she doesn't hesitate in pulling him close, wrapping her arms around him in a tight hug -- Carl lets her. "I know..." Carl feels her pressing her nose into his hair, and he hears a soft sob escape from her seconds later. "I... I... I'm so sorry, Carl." Her voice is trembling now. Numbly, Carl nods and closes his eyes -- no... eye -- unable to stop the tears from trickling down his face. The action causes spikes of pain to shoot through his right eye, only serving as a reminder of what Ron had done.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> My eye... my eye... </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Beth must have sensed a change or something, for she pulls back from the hug, leaving her hands on his shoulders -- and Carl stares up at her blankly. "What... what happened after I... after I passed out?" He asks in a soft voice. His head is pounding, and Carl wants nothing more than to curl up into a ball and cry. This isn't <em> fair. </em>None of this is. </p><p> </p><p>But since when has life been fair?</p><p> </p><p>"I was heading back when Randall and the girl from District 2 attacked me," Beth says after a moment, and an icy cold rage sweeps over Carl in an instant, "they almost killed me... but... but..." Carl's brows furrow, and he watches as his friend takes in a shaky breath, struggling to find the right words. "But these <em> things - </em>I don't know what they were... looked like people... but they weren't - came out a few seconds later before any of us could do anything. They-"</p><p> </p><p>"Wait-" Carl interrupts, leaning forward eagerly, "-these things... they had gray skin, right? Weird eyes too, and did they growl a lot?" Beth stares at him in shock before nodding, her eyes widening to the size of dinner plates,</p><p> </p><p>"You know what they are?" She breathes out, looking on the verge of tears. It's the most emotional he's seen her, but Carl knows he isn't any better off. Probably worse, really.</p><p> </p><p>Carl shakes his head. "No... I don't. But I saw one of them on the second night in the arena. I didn't get too close, though. I thought that if they were in the Hunger Games, then they probably weren't friendly." Carl hadn't really thought much of what he saw up until now. A part of him had been wondering if maybe he'd hallucinated it. But clearly not.</p><p> </p><p>Beth nods again, looking queasy. "It's a good thing you didn't get close. Those things... they look weak, but... but they're not..." she trails off, squeezing her eyes shut. "One of them grabbed the District 2 girl and... and bit her throat right out," Carl feels his breath catch, a hand moving to cover his mouth. Beth continues, "they rest caught up, and they... they ripped her to shreds, Carl. They <em> ate </em> her <em> alive."  </em></p><p> </p><p>Carl feels his insides turn ice cold. "Please tell me you're joking," he begs, but Beth simply shakes her head.</p><p> </p><p>"I wish I could say that I was," she admits, "but I'm not. More of those things came out right after - I think that the Gamemakers were trying to make that the last battle or somethin' - one of them grabbed Randall, and I used that chance to shove him off me. I went back to the clearing," she removes her hand from Carl's shoulder, reaching out and grabbing his hand again instead.</p><p> </p><p>"Ron was lying in the grass near you. I thought he was unconscious, so I went right over to you." Beth looks on the verge of tears as she continues on, and he gives her hand a comforting squeeze. "I helped you up, but Ron got up-"</p><p> </p><p>"He had a gun," Carl recalls, his voice quiet, and Beth nods.</p><p> </p><p>"Probably from sponsors," she says, but the look on her face is unsure. Tributes rarely get weapons like that in the arena. Hell, the last time a gun had even been used in the Games had been nearly ten years ago.</p><p> </p><p>Carl's gaze lands on Beth's bandaged shoulder. "He shot you."</p><p> </p><p>Beth's smile falters. "He did, and it hurts, but it isn't nearly as bad as..." she trails off, glancing away. "A-After he shot you... Randall came running out of the trees, the same creatures who ate the girl from 2 following him. They were distracted so, I... I grabbed you and just... I just ran, Carl. I patched you up the best I could. I even got sent a sponsor to help the damaged skin, but the eye..."</p><p> </p><p>Beth shakes her head, giving him an apologetic look. "I'm sorry, Carl," she whispers, "I really am."</p><p> </p><p>Carl doesn't say anything in response. He doesn't think there's really anything much to say. Instead, he curls up at Beth's side -- he lets her wrap up his eye again. <em> We don't need it getting infected, </em>she had said, giving him a faint smile, but Carl doesn't see the point. It's the Hunger Games -- it's not like he'll be living much longer anyway. </p><p> </p><p>Still, Carl eats the food she offers him and has a few sips of water. Beth doesn't stop talking despite his silence; Carl thinks that she's trying to do what Benjamin did -- fill the silence. Beth tells him that he's been asleep for three and a half days, that there are only five of them left now. Randall, Ron, and the girl from 10, though she doesn't know where any of them even are. Carl barely pays attention, though he tries not to cry as the implications of her words sweep over him. Of there only being five tributes left. </p><p> </p><p>Now that he's awake, the Gamemakers aren't going to let the Games go on for much longer. Maybe they'll give it another day -- two if they're lucky -- but after that...</p><p> </p><p>After that-</p><p> </p><p>Carl sighs, letting his head rest on Beth's chest, breathing in her scent as the steady thumping of her heart echoes in his ears. Carl wants to just stay here forever. He wants to freeze time so that he and Beth don't have to confront the ugly truth that only one of them is getting out of this alive. Saying it out loud would only make it seem so much... realer, and all Carl wants to do is get out of the Games, living and breathing with Beth at his side. Carl doesn't want anyone else to have to die, but he knows the chances of that happening are close to none. </p><p> </p><p>The end of the Games is near, and with it comes the inevitable death to all tributes but one. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>A day passes. Carl and Beth pack up their things and leave the cave. </p><p> </p><p>None of them say a word to each other the entire time. Even if the silence is near suffocating, neither Carl or Beth wants to break it. That had been Benjamin's thing -- he had been the one who chattered endlessly. So now they drown in the quiet.</p><p> </p><p>Carl has no idea where they are even going. He has a feeling Beth doesn't either, but he follows her anyway. It's not like he has anything better to do. </p><p> </p><p>It's just one foot in front of the other. </p><p> </p><p>Left foot forward, then the right one; then the left one again, followed by the right -- just keep moving. That's all they had to do.</p><p> </p><p>A cannon sounds around mid-day, causing the two of them to flinch, but they don't stop moving despite that. Don't stop to wonder who died and who was left. Carl and Beth just kept going.</p><p> </p><p>Kept moving. </p><p> </p><p>Beth and Carl only stop once, and that's to have a quick snack. They don't have much food left now, but Carl knows that they won't need it. </p><p> </p><p>They start walking again after that.</p><p> </p><p>Just keep walking...</p><p> </p><p>And walking...</p><p> </p><p>And walking…</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>They had just stopped for the night, had just set up camp, but Carl can't stop the bad feeling bubbling up inside him.</p><p> </p><p>It's not like before. Not when Carl had been sitting in that cave, grieving over the loss of his friend and his eye. It's an even worse feeling. But it's hard to explain: it's the churning in his gut, the way that the hairs on his arms rise up, it's the paranoia burning throughout every bit of him, and he knows that Beth has the same feeling. She keeps glancing around, keeps pacing, and she has yet to settle. She doesn't make a move to climb into her sleeping bag laid out on the jungle floor, and neither does Carl. </p><p> </p><p>They already had been snuck up on once, and it had cost Benjamin his life. Carl and Beth aren't going to make that same mistake again. They just can't.</p><p> </p><p>Beth hadn't said a word about that to Carl, but he knows that she is thinking it. He wonders if she's as worried as he is -- wonders what she thinks of her chances in the Games. Does she think she's going to win? Because Carl hopes she does.</p><p> </p><p>Carl absently fiddles with a stubborn strand of hair that keeps falling into his face. Then, he sighs, trying to relax a little. But it's no use -- every noise: every crunch of leaves in the jungle, every bird call... each of them causes him to tense back up all over again. It's tiring. No one ever told him paranoia would be this exhausting. He misses being able to walk around without glancing over his shoulder every two seconds, misses his warm bed, misses his parents...</p><p> </p><p>He just wants all of this to be over with.</p><p> </p><p>He doesn't even <em> care </em>if he wins or not -- he just wants out.</p><p> </p><p>Carl looks up when Beth lets out a heavy sigh, unable to stop the frown that had started pulling at the corner of his mouth when he sees her plop down onto the ground next to him. Her hair falls in her face, but it doesn't do much to hide the grim expression that had crossed her face. Hesitantly, Carl lets himself lean into her, resting his head on her uninjured shoulder. He half expected her to shove him away, but to his surprise, she wraps an arm around him and pulls Carl closer. </p><p> </p><p>Carl gives her a curious look but doesn't make a move to pull himself out of her hold. He doesn't really want to. </p><p> </p><p>So they just sit there in complete silence as the air seems to grow colder and colder by the second. It gets to the point that Carl can actually<em> see </em>his breath whenever he breathes, but neither he nor Beth tries to start a fire to counter it. The risks that would hold can quite possibly get them killed sooner. While Carl knows that it will be impossible for both of them to get out of the Games alive, that doesn't mean he wants to speed up the process at all. </p><p> </p><p>He likes living, and while he also knows that he probably doesn't have much time left alive, that doesn't mean he wants to get Beth killed as well. </p><p> </p><p>If anyone deserved to get out of this place alive, it was Beth.</p><p> </p><p>Blonde hair tickles his nose, and Carl has to shove back the urge to sneeze. He doubts that Beth would like snot in her hair -- they're both already dirty enough. Carl had just closed his eye, wanting to catch at least some sleep before the morning comes, when Beth starts to speak.</p><p> </p><p>"Do you have any family back at home?" </p><p> </p><p>Carl freezes for a split second, taken aback at the question. He had no idea why Beth would be asking him something like this -- maybe she wants to break the silence or something -- but Carl had half expected her to just kind of remain quiet for the rest of the night. Still, he's not exactly complaining.</p><p> </p><p>"Yeah," Carl answers quietly, opening his eye, "what about you?"</p><p> </p><p>Beth shifts slightly, staying quiet for a few seconds. Then, she peers down at the twelve-year-old cuddled into her side, pursing her lips as her eyes narrow. Carl can't help but wonder what's going through her head, but before she can ask, she nods, absently combing her fingers through his hair in the way that his mom used to whenever he had nightmares. He knows that Beth has no way of knowing that, but the motions comfort him nonetheless. </p><p> </p><p>He can almost fall asleep like this -- curled up at Beth's side. </p><p> </p><p>To be honest, a part of him is tempted to just do that. To fall asleep and just forget about all his problems (and his inevitable death) for a few short moments. </p><p> </p><p>That would be nice -- Carl wonders if Beth thinks the same. </p><p> </p><p>"I have a sister - her name's Maggie." Beth says, and there's a thinly-veiled longing in her voice, "she was supposed to be getting married this month, don't know if she still is..." she clears her throat, her expression carefully blank, "...I used to have a brother, but... he died in the Games a couple years ago. My mom died a few months later - my dad was never the same." Her face crumples almost instantly, and Carl feels a sense of understanding sweep through him. He reaches out, taking her hand and squeezing it in an attempt to comfort her. </p><p> </p><p>"I lost my brother too," Carl says quietly, and Beth's gaze snaps onto him, "his name was Andre... he was three - almost four. He got really sick a few years ago... we didn't have the medicine to help him." Carl's voice breaks as he speaks, and a fresh wave of pain washes over him -- one that had lingered there since Andre's death and one that would probably remain there until the moment Carl's life left his body, which was much sooner than he'd like it to be.</p><p> </p><p>Beth stares down at him for a few seconds, and she squeezes his hand, taking in a slow inhale as she forces her gaze to the trees ahead of them. "Your mom is pregnant right now, isn't she?" </p><p> </p><p>Carl nods. "Around two months by the time I-" he hesitates, "-she was around two months along by the time I got reaped. She should be three months now." Or at least, close to that. Carl can hardly believe that it's been a whole month (close to two) since he'd last seen his family. How long had he been in the arena anyway? Carl frowns, doing the math in his head. Eighteen days? Nineteen? Maybe twenty at this point. </p><p> </p><p>Twenty days... that sounds about right. </p><p> </p><p>Jesus... had he really been in here for nearly <em> three weeks?! </em></p><p> </p><p>Carl isn't sure how to feel about that.</p><p> </p><p>"I was so excited..." Carl murmurs, blinking away the tears that threaten to fall from his eye, "But now... I... I won't even get the chance to ever meet them."</p><p> </p><p>"You don't think you're getting out of here alive?" Beth asks, peering down at him. Her eyes are narrowed -- but not in an angry way -- she looks... concerned almost. Carl gives a little half-shrug, breathing a tense exhale through his nose and wincing as his eye-socket gives a twinge of pain. </p><p> </p><p>"I didn't even think I'd make it this far," Carl admits, "I thought that I'd die within the first few days." He looks up at Beth, giving her a sad smile, "I'm not strong, Beth. I won't be able to hold Ron or Randall back on my own. If they or the girl from District 10 attacks... I'm a goner. And let's be honest, no one is actually expecting me to win."</p><p> </p><p>Beth's frown deepens, "what are you talking about?"</p><p> </p><p>Carl snorts, "Beth... everyone loves you. They like Ron and Randall too, but they love you more. You're pretty, smart, strong, brave... you're the kind of person the Capitol wants for a Victor. Not me, I'm just a stupid twelve-year-old boy." </p><p> </p><p>"You are anything but a stupid twelve-year-old boy," Beth insists, shaking her head, "could a stupid twelve-year-old boy make it this long in the Hunger Games or get his eye shot out and still survive?" Beth shifts around, and Carl looks up to meet her gaze. She stares down at him, and her eyes are shining with unshed tears, "we are going to kill Ron and Randall <em> and </em>the girl from 10, I promise you that."</p><p> </p><p>"And after?" Carl questions and Beth flinches back, "We can't both win this thing, Beth." It's the first time either of them had brought this up since they met, and as expected, saying it out loud makes it seem so much worse. In a much quieter voice, Carl whispers, "I don't want you to die."</p><p> </p><p>Beth sends him a sad smile, "we'll cross that bridge when we get to it."</p><p> </p><p>Then, they descend back into silence. </p><p> </p><p>It's suffocating.</p><p> </p><p>Carl hates it.</p><p> </p><p>Around ten (or so) minutes pass before Carl decides he can't take it any longer.</p><p> </p><p>"Have... have you killed someone while here?" Beth looks surprised by his question, and he can't blame her. It's definitely not a very common question to ask. For a few seconds, Carl wonders if she's even going to answer it, and he sighs, starting to move away.</p><p> </p><p>Then, he hears her sigh. </p><p> </p><p>He looks up to see her nodding.</p><p> </p><p>"I did," she says softly, her blue eyes pinned to the ground, "was before we found you. Sometime during the Bloodbath, actually. I went in for supplies, grabbed a backpack, but the girl from nine wanted it too. She tried stabbing me... I had to... I had to..." Beth squeezes her eyes shut, taking in a shaky breath. </p><p> </p><p>"I killed the girls from Districts 1 and 4. And the girl from five," Carl whispers, forcing back a wince as Beth's stare burns a hole into his side, "She was trying to choke me... I stabbed her right in the chest. But I didn't<em> stop." </em> Carl feels the first tear start to trickle down his cheek. His face hurts -- his eye hurts -- but he can't find it in him to care. "I just kept stabbing her - even when she was dead. A part of me... a part of me even... even <em> enjoyed </em>it." He doesn't dare look up at Beth. He doesn't want to see the disgust on her face if he does.</p><p> </p><p>"She attacked you... right?" Carl nods in response to Beth's question but still refuses to look at her. "Okay, so you had a reason to kill her - just like with the Careers. You wouldn't have done it if she hadn't attacked you."</p><p> </p><p>"Still, I just... I feel so... so..." Carl doesn't know what he feels. It's not guilt, and he knows that for a fact. "I can't sleep because of it... I keep seeing her in my nightmares and whenever I close my eyes... or eye." Carl lets out a bitter laugh, finally forcing himself to look up at Beth. She doesn't look disgusted like he had expected. Instead, she just looks... really, really sad. </p><p> </p><p>"I don't regret it either." Carl doesn't know why he's still talking, but he has to stop. What he needs to do right now is shut <em> up. </em>"Is... is that bad? Not regretting it - am I a bad person for that?"</p><p> </p><p>Beth shakes her head, "No, it doesn't," she spares a quick glance toward the treeline before looking back at him, "Carl, if anyone in this arena is bad, it's Ron and Randall - or that girl who attacked you - but not you." </p><p> </p><p>Carl is comforted by her words, but not as much as he would have liked.</p><p> </p><p>The mention of Ron and Randall doesn't really help much either if he was being honest. </p><p> </p><p>"What are we going to do...?" Carl whispers, trying not to shiver as another gust of wind sweeps through their camp. Are jungles even supposed to be this cold? He doesn't know -- he probably won't ever know. "About Ron and Randall, and the girl from 10, I mean... They're... they're still out there." His jaw tightens as he thinks about the two who had killed Benjamin -- he can feel the bullet flying into his skin again and can still see the spear protruding from his friend's stomach.</p><p> </p><p>He wants to erase those images from his mind.</p><p> </p><p>He wants to forget about the Games entirely.</p><p> </p><p>He wants to go home.</p><p> </p><p>And he knows how foolish all of those wishes are.</p><p> </p><p>Beth stares at him for a long few seconds before looking up at the sky, hardly shining with any light. He wonders if she's wishing for the same things he is. "We need to get some rest," she says finally, gesturing to the sleeping bags spread out before them, "we need to be energized for tomorrow. We need to be ready." </p><p> </p><p>Carl fiddles with a long strand of his hair, tucking it behind his ears as he knits his eyebrows together in curiosity. "Ready...? Ready for what?" </p><p> </p><p>He has no idea why he's even asking something like this.</p><p> </p><p>He already knows.</p><p> </p><p>Beth heaves a heavy sigh, her shoulders slumping as she closes her eyes. She looks older and more exhausted than he's ever seen her look. "For the end of the Games," she says, "because tomorrow... chances are one of us are goin' home." </p><p> </p><p><em> Yes, </em> Carl thinks, nodding at her words -- <em> Beth is right.  </em></p><p> </p><p>One of them is going home.</p><p> </p><p>Not Randall or Ron.</p><p> </p><p>And not Carl either.</p><p> </p><p>If anyone was going home tomorrow, it was going to be Beth.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The anthem plays a few minutes after they fall silent, and the District 10 girl's face appears in the sky. </p><p> </p><p>He had hoped it would be Ron, to be honest. And while Carl knows that the girl from 10 dying means one less person to worry about tomorrow, he can't stop the disappointment and sense of foreboding that forms in the pit of his stomach. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Three hours pass by in complete silence.</p><p> </p><p>Well, okay, that's kind of a lie. There's the buzzing of bugs, the occasional animal call somewhere in the distance, and the sound of footsteps as Beth paces around their camp, but talking wise, neither Carl nor Beth say a single word. It's just silence with the both of them. Carl finds that he doesn't care nearly as much as he used to.</p><p> </p><p>It only seems to be getting colder the longer that they stay out in the open. Carl wonders if this is the Gamemakers doing or not -- if they are trying to force Carl and Beth to get fed up and move camps so they can drive the two of them in Ron and Randall's direction. He can tell that Beth is thinking along the same lines as he is -- she keeps glancing up at one of the cameras they had spotted in the trees above, a look of annoyance on her face.</p><p> </p><p>Carl also is wondering who the camera is even focused on right now. He and Beth, the girl from District 10, or Ron and Randall. Nothing all that interesting is going on with him and Beth, so it's probably the two Careers. But who knows -- certainly not Carl. All he knows is that he's cold, hungry, and just wants to go home. They have a little bit of food left, but it isn't much. Only two protein bars and some kind of yellow fruit Beth calls a banana. </p><p> </p><p>There's a loud smacking noise -- the sound of skin on skin.</p><p> </p><p>Carl jumps, a hand immediately darting to the knife tucked away in his pocket.</p><p> </p><p>"Sorry," Beth calls out, wiping her palm on her jacket and making her way back over to where Carl is sitting, "these bugs are eating me alive." </p><p> </p><p>Carl snorts, trying not to grimace as the bug bites on his skin start to itch even more, "they keep on getting worse."</p><p> </p><p>Yet another thing that the Gamemakers are possibly using to try and get Carl and Beth to move.</p><p> </p><p>Well fuck them and their endless bugs, weather controls, and tricks. Carl isn't moving an inch until morning comes.</p><p> </p><p>Unless they send another hurricane or something -- then he'll definitely move. </p><p> </p><p>Still, fuck them.</p><p> </p><p>Beth hums her agreement to his words, sitting back down on the ground beside him. She groans, rolling her shoulders: "God, I'm cold."</p><p> </p><p>"You and me both," Carl says with a grin.</p><p> </p><p>Beth sighs, "I feel so gross - all these bugs sticking to me and the <em> dirt. </em> I would give <em> anything </em>for a warm shower right now."  </p><p> </p><p>Carl's smile widens a bit at this. He understands how she feels; Carl feels disgusting -- his skin is covered in grime, sweat, dead bugs, and who knows what else, but there aren't many options here in the arena. "The rivers don't exactly cut it, now do they?"</p><p> </p><p>Beth shivers, wrinkling her nose. "Yeah, no." Then, a curious look passes over her face. "What's the first thing you would do upon getting out of here?"</p><p> </p><p>Carl blinks stupidly, taken aback at the question. But he answers it without hesitation. "Eat, definitely." His stomach rumbles a bit as he says this, but he ignores it. "What about you?"</p><p> </p><p>"Same here," Beth agrees, bumping her shoulder into his, "what would you eat, though? The first thing I would have is a taco. Maybe icecream," a longing expression then crosses her face, "no... wait, definitely chocolate. Just a shit ton of chocolate." She sighs. "God, I miss chocolate." </p><p> </p><p>Carl can't stop the giggle that escapes his mouth. But he straightens up as he considers her second question. "Dunno... bread? Berries? We don't really have a lot of food options in District 11." Immediately, Beth's face shifts, as if suddenly remembering just how poor District 11 is compared to District 7. While her district certainly isn't as rich as 1 or 2, District 7 is far better off than 11 or 12 are.</p><p> </p><p>"What's it like in District 11?" Beth asks. She sounds genuinely curious too. Not mocking or pitying or anything like that. So Carl leans back slightly, cocking his head as he mulls over her question. It's not something he's really been asked before. Though that probably is because he hadn't actually interacted with anyone outside his district until the Games. </p><p> </p><p>"Green," Carl answers, "there are fields everywhere. Mostly for crops and planting, but there are a few empty ones with just flowers and grass... they're really, really pretty." A smile pulls at the corners of Carl's lips, and a feeling of contentment settles over him as he thinks of his home. Of the countless meadows, singing birds, the bright flowers that bloom every spring... District 11 might not have a lot of money, and the Capitol might keep them on a close leash, and it can get quite solemn -- but there is quite a lot of beauty in it too. Carl just hadn't realized how much he had missed it until he was torn away from it. </p><p> </p><p>"That sounds nice," Beth says quietly, absently picking at a bug bite on her arm, "District 7 doesn't have anything like that. It's just really dusty. There's dirt everywhere, sawdust... the forests are pretty, but they're hard to navigate sometimes." </p><p> </p><p>Carl sends her a small smile, "at least you don't have Tracker-jackers in your forests. Those things are horrible." </p><p> </p><p>"Have you ever been stung by one?" Beth asks, eyebrows knitting together curiously.</p><p> </p><p>Carl makes a face as he nods, "once when I was ten. It sucked." Thankfully the adults had been able to treat it before the sting got too bad, but Carl had been dizzy for days. </p><p> </p><p>"From what I've heard about them, that sounds about right," Beth agrees, shifting closer. She pulls a knee up to her chest, tucking her jacket a little bit closer around her body and wincing when it brushes against her injured shoulder. Carl finds himself doing the same, leaning into the older girl, wanting some kind of warmth or comfort. Carl can hardly feel his nose or fingers at this point, and the jacket that the Capitol had given the tributes isn't doing much to combat the chill. He knows that Beth feels similarly by the way she shivered beside him. Carl tries closing his eye, tries getting himself to relax at least a little bit so he can fall asleep -- even if it's only for a few hours. </p><p> </p><p>It doesn't work.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>There are no other cannons that night.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>"I don't like this," Carl says, staring down at the half-used box of matches sitting innocently in Beth's hands, "can't we wait for them to find us? We'll have the upper hand that way, won't we?" </p><p> </p><p>"I know, I don't like it either, but we have to do this before Ron and Randall find us or before the Gamemakers decide to end it now. Waiting isn't an option anymore, Carl," Beth argues, flicking a blonde curl of hair out of her face. She passes the matches to him, and Carl takes them -- albeit hesitantly -- watching nervously as she pulls her backpack from her shoulders (once again wincing when it brushes against her bandages) and tucks it into a bush nearing the base of a pile of boulders. If the Games are ending today, they probably won't need any of the supplies in there anyway. But still, it pains him to see them just abandoning all of the supplies he nearly lost his life to get. </p><p> </p><p>"You have your knife?" Beth asks, and Carl nods, tucking the matches into one of his pockets before pulling his knife out. Its edges are still tainted with dried blood, but Carl tries his best to ignore this part. Beth turns around, pulling a machete and some throwing knives out from the backpack before stepping back. She glances over at Carl before nodding to herself, inhaling deeply.</p><p> </p><p>"This is going to work," she tells him as if sensing his doubt -- which she probably does. Her words sound confident, and she seems so sure of herself. Carl smiles, absentmindedly reaching up a hand to scratch at the bandages covering his eye-socket and pretending not to hear the way Beth's voice faltered a little bit as she reaches the last word.</p><p> </p><p>This is it. These are the final few hours left of the Games. By the end of it, only one of the tributes would be left alive. </p><p> </p><p>Carl isn't sure how he feels about that. </p><p> </p><p>Beth glances up at the sky: bright blue and sunny without a single cloud there to block the marvelous view. Honestly, Carl would have preferred if it were a little bit gloomier: it would fit the mood better that way. "You remember the plan, right?" Beth asks, looking back over at him. </p><p> </p><p>"Seeing as you told it to me like fifty times, yeah, I do," Carl remarks dryly. Beth smiles -- but it doesn't reach her eyes.</p><p> </p><p>"Explain it to me then - what are you meant to do?" Beth asks him, placing a hand on her hip. Now, of course, Beth knows perfectly well what Carl is supposed to do -- she was the one who came up with the plan in the first place, so obviously she knows. But she's trying to make sure Carl remembers it as well -- it's a tactic that his dad used to use on him and Andre back at home.</p><p> </p><p>The thought of his dad and brother sends a pang of pain shooting through his heart.</p><p> </p><p>He wonders if Andre is up there waiting for Carl to join him.</p><p> </p><p>Carl grimaces, pushing that thought away. There's no time for thinking like that right now.</p><p> </p><p>Carl taps the pocket he put the matches in. "Once I hear the signal, I go to the spot we agreed on and set a bunch of trees on fire before hiding as far away as possible - if I can't find a place to hide, run right to the cornucopia and climb up onto the top where they can't see or reach me and wait for you there. If Ron or Randall appear before you, try and stay hidden, but if I get the chance to kill one of them, take it." </p><p> </p><p>Beth nods, looking satisfied with his response. "Good - and what do you do if you hear a cannon but don't know who died?"</p><p> </p><p>"Don't go looking," Carl says immediately, though the thought of that happening makes his heart do a flip, "I should wait to see who shows up."</p><p> </p><p>"And if it isn't me?" Beth presses.</p><p> </p><p>"I stay hidden until I get the chance to kill them," Carl says quietly, swallowing down the lump in his throat, "don't take any unnecessary risks."</p><p> </p><p>Beth nods again before moving forward and kneeling down in front of him -- making them at eye-level. She stares into his eye and rests a hand on Carl's shoulder, "we're going to do this, Carl. Neither Ron nor Randall are going to win," Carl musters up a small smile, and Beth gives his shoulder a comforting squeeze before letting her hand drop back down to her side. </p><p> </p><p>"You'll be careful?" Carl can feel the tears forming in his eye as an image of a dead Beth wanders into his mind. "You won't take any unnecessary risks either, right?" </p><p> </p><p>"I'll be as careful as I can," The older girl promises, and then she reaches out again, pulling Carl into her chest and wrapping her arms around his much smaller figure. Carl doesn't waste a second in hugging her back, squeezing her a little tighter when he realizes this might be the last time he ever sees Beth. </p><p> </p><p>"I'm scared," he whispers into Beth's shirt. He hears her sigh, her breath tickling his neck, and she holds him a little tighter. </p><p> </p><p>"I know," she says, her voice just as soft as his, "I'd be lying if I said I wasn't scared either."</p><p> </p><p>Her admission shouldn't be as comforting as it is -- it should be terrifying for him -- but for some reason, it isn't. The fact that Beth isn't hiding it from Carl makes him feel so much better. The logic is a little bit backward, but he can hardly give a damn at the moment. </p><p> </p><p>Beth pulls away from the hug first, though her movements are reluctant. They stare at each other for a long few moments before Beth forces herself back up to her feet, taking in a deep breath as she wipes her palms on her pants. "Okay... this is it," she hands Carl one of the extra knives, and at his curious look, she says, "Just in case."</p><p> </p><p>Carl takes it. </p><p> </p><p>Beth steps away, and the two of them don't waste a moment after that -- they don't have the time to do that. Carl turns around the moment that he has the second knife in his hands, ducking away into a cluster of nearby bushes and trying desperately to push back the fear that is slowly growing in his gut as he moves further and further away from Beth.</p><p> </p><p>Each step he takes feels heavier and heavier.</p><p> </p><p>Like he's walking toward his death, which he very well might be doing.</p><p> </p><p>By the time the next day rolls around, Carl Grimes of District 11 will be nothing more than another dead child in the Capitol's cruel and unforgiving game. Yet another grave, yet another child that his parents have lost... Forgotten by the Capitol in less than a year as they parade their new victor around...</p><p> </p><p>He grips his knife a little tighter, clenching his jaw.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Carl knows he is going to die.</p><p> </p><p>And he isn't saying that because he is a pessimist. He is just being realistic -- the chances of this plan actually working are slim. Horribly slim. There are so many different ways that this can go wrong, so many ways this can end. But no matter what happens, Carl knows that he isn't going to live to see the next sunrise. But this is the only option that they have -- the Games are ending today, and he and Beth are going to put up one hell of a fight to make sure neither Ron nor Randall end up winning. </p><p> </p><p>Carl isn't going to let the assholes who killed his friend and shot his eye out live to see another day.</p><p> </p><p>They had their chances -- they blew all of them.</p><p> </p><p>Carl holds his breath as he picks his way through the thick undergrowth of the jungle. Moving through the bushes and trees is hard -- especially with how close together they are -- but Carl manages to keep pretty quiet despite it. Carl reaches a small clearing and crouches down in a dense cluster of bushes. Carl glances around, holding his breath as he settles down, grimacing as the dry and itchy leaves brush against his skin. He tugs the sleeves of his jacket a little further over his arms, inwardly cursing himself for picking such an awkward spot. But there is no time for moving now. </p><p> </p><p>Okay, time to end the Games in one giant ball of flames -- literally.</p><p> </p><p>He sits there for around ten more minutes -- waiting patiently for Beth's signal. Carl wonders if it's meant to be taking this long. What if Beth hadn't been able to hide in time? What if Ron and Randall found her before she could and had killed h-- wait, no, he would have heard a cannon if they had killed her. But the lack of one doesn't mean that she's safe. He had seen past Games -- had seen the agonizing experiences some tributes had been put through before their deaths. And he knows that some of those might be happening to Beth at this very moment. </p><p> </p><p>But he can't be letting his doubtful thoughts get the best of him -- not here, not now. Beth had told him to set the fires once she had given the signal, not before. He isn't going to mess up the plan just because he got a little bit nervous. They need this plan to work, no matter how idiotic it may or may not be. Personally, Carl thinks that it is much better than anything he could have come up with, but that doesn't stop the worrying thoughts from drifting into his mind. He isn't going to let Ron or Randall win: not after the shit they pulled -- not after what they did to him and Benjamin.</p><p> </p><p>Okay, so the thing is, Carl is <em> beyond </em>terrified at this point. He doesn't want to die today, even if he knows that doing so is inevitable. But he also isn't going to let another one of his friends die. Beth deserves to go back home to be there for her sister's wedding -- her family shouldn't have to lose yet another loved one. A part of Carl wonders if Beth could kill him if the plan actually worked and Ron and Randell died -- she had killed before, and she was stronger than she looked, but at the same time, he isn't so sure. </p><p> </p><p>But he shouldn't have to worry about this right now -- that's something they could figure out later. Carl's legs have started to cramp up, but he ignores it, peering through the undergrowth as he waits for Beth's signal. The jungle is unnaturally quiet -- Carl has grown so used to hearing the sound of birds chirping and the bugs buzzing over the past few weeks, but now the only sounds are the occasional rustling of leaves and his breathing. It's unsettling.</p><p> </p><p>But then, he hears it.</p><p> </p><p>A low, drawn-out whistle that echoes throughout the arena. It reminds Carl of the birds back at home. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> The signal. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>With a nearly inaudible sigh of relief, Carl turns, ducking back into the trees behind him. He keeps his body low to the ground, his heart thundering in his chest as he picks his way through the undergrowth. Carl finds his destination pretty quickly -- it's a cluster of wilting trees, all close together, all of them dry, dead, cracking, with bits of bark flaking from them. Beth had found and picked it out -- had told him to start making his way toward it once he heard the signal. And once he did...</p><p> </p><p>Carl reaches into his pocket, pulling out the matches.</p><p> </p><p>He stares at the box for a few seconds. It's kind of funny how the item that he used the least during the Games would end up being so vital. It makes him remember that river, of how he had used a match to cook that fish, makes him think of those creatures that had torn the girl from District 6 apart. He wonders if those creatures had a name -- or if they had just been created by the Gamemakers to kill the tributes. Interesting how one item can make a person think about so many different things.</p><p> </p><p>Carl picks up the driest and largest looking branch he can find from off the ground before glancing up at the sky. He can hardly see it through the thick leaves above, but he can still see the bright blue color that it had been when he and Beth had separated. He wonders if it's the last glimpse of the sky he'll ever see.</p><p> </p><p>Carl tears his eye away, breathing a tense exhale through his nose as he kneels down in the dirt at the base of one of the trees. He holds the branch up, staring at it for a moment before pulling out a match from the box. He puts the pack onto the ground beside him, reaching out and grabbing a nearby rock. Carl could just use the side of the packet to light the match, but it was already so crumpled from being crushed and pushed around that a part of him doubts that would work.</p><p> </p><p>"Okay, okay..." Carl murmurs, staring at the rock in one hand before letting his gaze flicker to the match in the other, "I can do this... just..."</p><p> </p><p>Just what? Just believe? Believing wouldn't help him right now. Neither would hoping, praying, or anything similar. The only thing that would do anything for him is getting his part of the plan done so he can run as far away as possible, hide, and wait for Beth's arrival. Carl holds the match up before bringing it down on the rock. The thing sparks almost immediately, the bright flame flickering to life. </p><p> </p><p>Oh, thank god. </p><p> </p><p>With a deep breath, Carl lowers the lit match to the branch he had chosen. But before he can set it on fire, a sudden gust of wind rushes by, and the little red flame gives a weak flicker before vanishing completely. Carl feels his stomach drop, followed by a feeling of irritation as he stares down at the blackened end of the match.</p><p> </p><p>Damn, the Gamemakers are really against him doing this, aren't they? </p><p> </p><p>Well, too bad.</p><p> </p><p>Carl reaches back into the packet of matches, pulling two of them out. He lights one of them, and as expected, another blast of wind causes it to flicker out before he can set the branch on fire. Carl takes the other one between his fingers, frowning down at it before taking in a deep breath. <em> I can do this... </em>He brings the match down on the rock, and it flares to life almost instantly. He brings up a hand to block it from the last strong wind that's sent his way, and the fire doesn't go out.  </p><p> </p><p>Carl is unable to stop the smile that spreads across his face. </p><p> </p><p>The flame isn't going out. </p><p> </p><p>He resists the urge to grin up at the cameras.</p><p> </p><p>Slowly, Carl lowers the match toward the dry branch, holding his breath as he brings it right against the bark. One second... two... three... four -- for a split second, Carl wonders if it's even going to light, but then he spots a wisp of smoke rising from the match. A second later, the wisp of smoke grows, followed by wild flames. The branch is on fire -- Carl quickly rises to his feet, holding the branch far away from himself as the fire burns only a few inches from his hand. </p><p> </p><p>Then, Carl holds the branch to one of the trees. It only takes a minute before the wood catches flames. The moment that Carl is satisfied that the fire isn't about to burn out, he turns to the next tree, and then the next, and the next. He does this until the flames rise higher and higher up their trunks and along various vines hanging down, spreading to the rest of the trees around them, and he turns, the burning branch still in his hand, and <em> runs.  </em></p><p> </p><p>He holds the branch out as he does, letting the flames catch on the thick undergrowth so they can burn and grow, and sure enough, the fire spreads out to the trees and bushes surrounding them. Soon enough, Carl can't hold the burning branch any longer, and he throws it as high as he can, watching as it lands in the dead, low hanging branches of a nearby tree, setting it on fire moments later. </p><p> </p><p>He had done it.</p><p> </p><p>The jungle is on fire.</p><p> </p><p>Now all he needs to do is find a non-flammable place to hide. That is going to be difficult. Carl can already feel the heat of the flames licking at his skin, can already smell the smoke hanging in the air -- it would only be a matter of time before he has nowhere to go.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> The cornucopia.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Beth had said to go there if he can't find a place to hide.</p><p> </p><p>So he changes directions -- starts running back to the field where the cornucopia lay.</p><p> </p><p>All the way back to the beginning. The place that the Games had started at and where it would end. </p><p> </p><p>That was... weirdly poetic in a way.</p><p> </p><p>And then, without any kind of warning, the light starts to fade from the sky. Carl gasps, looking up right as the sun disappears under the horizon-line much too quickly -- almost as if it were sinking -- bathing the arena in darkness, leaving the flames surrounding him as the only light source.</p><p> </p><p>Carl's stomach dropped as the realization sweeps over him. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> They're ending it.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>No sooner had this thought passed through his mind, there was a sound that made his blood turn to ice in his veins. It was the sound that has been haunting Carl's nightmares, one that he had prayed he would never have to hear again. But he should have known better -- there was no way the Gamemakers would have made a monstrous creature and not use it to strike fear into the hearts of the audience (and tributes) one last time. </p><p> </p><p>Carl urges himself to run faster, swearing as a burning branch falls from above, missing him by mere inches.</p><p> </p><p>Then, there's a snarl. </p><p> </p><p>There's a figure a few feet ahead of him, shoulders sagging -- a limp in its gait as it moves. Carl pulls to a stop, eye going wide as the flame illuminates the figure's rotted, gray skin and glowing yellow eyes. A low growl escapes from the creature's lips, Carl is snapped out of his shock. He breaks into a run, dodging past the creature's reaching hands and the fire flickering around him. </p><p> </p><p>He breaks through the treeline seconds later, his heart pounding as the cornucopia rises into view. Carl scans the clearing quickly as he nears. Where the hell is Beth? The fire is moving quickly -- faster than he had first expected. Could she have... could she have gotten hurt because of the flames? </p><p> </p><p>Carl reaches the cornucopia, sparing a quick glance behind him. The dead ones have yet to break through the treeline themselves, but he knows that it's only a matter of time before they do. </p><p> </p><p>He looks up at the large container before glancing back at the jungle, half destroyed by the flames. He should start climbing the cornucopia now -- that's what Beth told him to do. Stay there until she comes to get him -- and if Ron and Randall get there before she does, they won't be expecting him to be sitting on top of it. </p><p> </p><p>He had just made a move to start climbing when a loud cry catches his attention. "Carl!"</p><p> </p><p>Carl spins around, eye widening at the sound of Beth's voice. It takes him a moment to spot his friend, but when he does, he feels as though his heart had just stopped beating in his chest.</p><p> </p><p>Because there is Beth, stumbling out from the trees with her blue eyes wide -- and behind her are the dead creatures with their rotted skin and lifeless eyes. Some of them are even on fire.</p><p> </p><p>Oh, that isn't good.</p><p> </p><p>Carl stands frozen for a split second, wondering whether he should go to Beth or climb the cornucopia. He makes his decision, running toward Beth. As he gets closer, he can see what bad shape she is in. Blood is oozing from a cut on her forehead, a burn covers her right cheek, ash and soot are coating her skin, and by the way that she runs, Carl can tell she must have hurt her foot somehow. She keeps stumbling, her face deathly pale and scrunched up in pain. </p><p> </p><p>"You- You need-" Beth is gasping for breath by the time he meets her halfway across the field. She falls to her knees moments after she reaches Carl, wrapping him up in a tight hug before quickly pulling back. "Get to the... to the cornucopia." Carl peers behind her, eye widening as he takes in the scene before him. There are so many more dead ones than there had been before. There's at least a hundred, some on fire with their flesh sizzling away and their skin blackened but entirely unaffected as they reach out their hands toward their prey -- teeth barred as low groans escape from them.</p><p> </p><p>The sounds they make are near deafening. The crackling of the fire doesn't exactly make things any better either. Even though Carl had set the forest on fire a mere ten or so minutes before, more than half of the jungle surrounding them had gone up in flames. The darkness made the fire give out an odd glow, and if it hadn't been for the immense amount of danger he and Beth are in, Carl would have called it beautiful.</p><p> </p><p>"We need to go," Beth gasps out, and she starts stumbling toward the cornucopia. Carl presses himself into her side, helping her to stay upright.</p><p> </p><p>That's when Ron and Randall appear. </p><p> </p><p>The two teenagers run out of the jungle, stumbling and tripping, but when Ron's eyes land on Beth and Carl, multiple emotions flash across his face: anger, hatred, shock (probably at seeing Carl alive), and something else Carl isn't able to figure out. From across the clearing, Carl can see his face turn as red as his hair, and he lets out an enraged scream and runs forward, leaving a confused Randall behind as he pulls a knife out of his pack, taking aim at Carl and Beth. </p><p> </p><p>"Beth, come on!" Carl pulls desperately at the blonde's hand. She looks up, eyes narrowing as she spots the redhead running toward them. Beth complies, though -- forcing herself to move faster, and they are almost at the cornucopia when he hears Beth swear, and then suddenly Carl is shoved to the ground, yelping when Beth throws herself on top of him before he can fully realize what is going on.</p><p> </p><p>A knife whizzes overhead moments later.</p><p> </p><p>Oh.</p><p> </p><p>Beth rolls off of him with a faint groan, letting Carl climb back up to his feet. She gets up seconds later, looking a little worse for wear than before. Carl turns, a cold rage filling him. He pulls out one of his knives, prepared to throw it at Ron before gasping when he realizes how many more of the dead ones there now are. Hundreds more are forcing their way through the roaring flames, and the nearest one is only a few feet away. </p><p> </p><p>Oh shit.</p><p> </p><p>That cannot be good...</p><p> </p><p>"You are dead!" Ron shrieks as he dodges past the reaching hands of one of the burning dead ones, Randall at his heels, "You two are dead!" </p><p> </p><p>"Carl," Beth commands in a harsh whisper, pulling out her knife, "get to the cornucopia."</p><p> </p><p>Carl stares. </p><p> </p><p>She wants to fight them...? On her own?</p><p> </p><p>That's practically suicide, especially with the state that she's in.</p><p> </p><p>Carl runs forward right as Ron attempts to tackle Beth to the ground -- he throws himself into the older boy's chest, sending them both toppling to the ground. Ron yelps, and Carl grits his teeth as his back slams into the ground. Fingers wind themselves around his throat before Carl can regain his bearings, and he thrashes wildly as Ron's crazed face swims into view. He looks nothing like the cocky teenage boy that Carl had seen back in training -- he looks wild, insane. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> What is with this arena and trying to suffocate me?! </em>
</p><p> </p><p>First, there was the girl from District 5, then the river that he had nearly drowned in, and now this. Carl scratches at the fingers as the blackness fades in and out -- he can't breathe. Distantly, he can see the flames growing closer and closer, as well as the dead ones. Honestly, Carl would prefer being suffocated over being burned or eaten alive.</p><p> </p><p>Suddenly, Ron is being yanked away from Carl's nearly limp form before being tossed to the side. Beth doesn't waste a second in lunging on top of Ron, her knife raised and prepared to strike. Ron's hand darts up, stopping the blade from sinking into his skin at the last second. </p><p> </p><p>Carl starts gasping for breath, trying to regain his bearings and looks over right as Randall runs forward, grabbing Beth by the ponytail and ripping her away from Ron, who scrambles back, eyes wide with surprise. "You bitch!" Randall spits, throwing Beth to the ground.</p><p> </p><p>The blonde cries out in pain as her back hits the ground, but she doesn't give Randall the chance to pin her down. She scrambles backward across the dry grass, brandishing her knife and scowling at Randall, who runs forward again, his own knife raised. He slashes at Beth, but she dodges the attack with ease before stabbing Randall in the arm. The other boy screams in pain, dropping his knife and clutching at his shoulder. He looks up, eyes landing on Beth, and he opens his mouth to swear at her when a rotting face appears suddenly, burying decaying teeth into Randall's bleeding arm. </p><p> </p><p>Carl can only stare as Randall lets out a bloodcurdling scream. Another of the dead ones latch onto him, taking a chunk out of his face this time.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Oh god... </em>
</p><p> </p><p>"Help!" Randall screams as he is pulled down. "Someone, please! Help me!" </p><p> </p><p>No one moves.</p><p> </p><p>Not Ron. Not Carl. Not Beth.</p><p> </p><p>Beth runs to Carl's side, quickly pulling him to his feet as the dead ones get closer and closer. Carl's gaze settles on Ron for a second, who is rubbing his head on all fours, wondering if he's going to do anything to help his ally. But as the redhead looks up, as his eyes land on Randall's struggling form, Carl knows that he isn't.</p><p> </p><p>Sure enough, Ron Anderson doesn't move.</p><p> </p><p>Randall stares at him with a look of betrayal in his eyes. "You-" he doesn't get any other words out before yet another pair of teeth clamp down on his throat. Randall's eyes went wide, his mouth dropped open in a soundless scream.</p><p> </p><p>For the first time ever, Carl feels pity for the other boy. He feels horrified that Randall had been cursed with such a painful death, hates the Capitol for forcing them all into this arena -- he just wants this to be over. More and more dead ones surround Randall, ripping the teenaged boy to shreds. </p><p> </p><p>It doesn't take long for the cannon to sound after that. </p><p> </p><p>"Carl, move it!" Beth orders, snapping Carl out of his shock. He tears his eye away from the gory scene in front of him, mouth dropping open in horror when he realizes just how close the dead ones are. Not only that, but in the time that Carl had taken his attention away from them, they seemed to multiply. While there had only been a one or two hundred last time he looked, there are at least five hundred now. Not that he's counting.</p><p> </p><p>Beth cries out again, "Carl!" That's what shakes him out of his stupor. He turns tail and runs in the direction of the cornucopia, his heart pounding. Beth is right behind him, and Ron follows a few moments later, too terrified to even think about attacking Carl or Beth right now. </p><p> </p><p>Carl and Beth don't try attacking him either. Beth is too tired and weak to do so, and Carl doesn't think he even has the time for that. A part of him is tempted to throw a knife at Ron and leave him for the dead ones, and he actually starts to turn around to do that, but then an image of Randall being ripped apart comes to mind, and he knows that he can't curse a person to that kind of fate -- not even Ron, who gouged out his eye.</p><p> </p><p>Carl reaches the cornucopia first. Beth is next. "Get up there!" She shouts. </p><p> </p><p>Carl starts climbing, his heart beating faster than it ever has before. His feet dangle over the edge of it for a moment, but then Beth is pushing him, giving him a boost, and Carl is able to make it to the top. He turns instantly, reaching down to grab Beth's hand. Carl grits his teeth as he pulls, but somehow, he manages to get her up. They both scrambled away from the edge, and Ron pulls himself up moments later. </p><p> </p><p>Beth climbs to her feet, eyeing the redhead warily as he sits at the edge, gasping for breath. Carl follows her example, getting up and grabbing his knife. </p><p> </p><p>Ron looks up, making a face when he spots them. Slowly, he climbs to his feet but doesn't make a move to grab his weapons. Instead, he steps away from the edge, keeping his eyes on them as he moves. Carl keeps his gaze pinned on the redhead's hands, half expecting him to grab a knife and attack at any second. </p><p> </p><p>Beth takes a step toward the edge, which also means she is stepping toward Ron. She peeks over the edge of the cornucopia, making a face as she takes in the hundreds upon hundreds of rotting creatures clawing at the rigid metal. Thankfully they can't climb.</p><p> </p><p>"That doesn't look ideal," Beth murmurs. Carl moves to her side, cringing when he takes in the same sight.</p><p> </p><p>But by moving to Beth's side, he also had taken his eye off of Ron.</p><p> </p><p>He realizes this a moment too late. </p><p> </p><p>He hears Beth cry out, and he looks up right as Ron barrels into her. The two older tributes tumble and fall onto the hard metal, and Beth swings her knife at the redhead, catching him on the cheek but not getting a vital hit. She knees Ron in the groin, and the redhead leaps away, swearing heavily. Beth doesn't waste a second in darting forward, slashing at Ron once again. The point catches him in the chest but not deep enough to do much harm.</p><p> </p><p>Ron snarls, lunging forward and swinging his fist. It crashes right into Beth's jaw, and the blonde is knocked over, her knife clattering on the ground beside her. Ron advances, a sneer on his lips, picking up the knife she had dropped.</p><p> </p><p>Carl, from where he had stood frozen at the edge of the cornucopia, snaps out of his reverie and runs forward, leaping onto Ron's back and wrapping two small arms around the older boy's throat. Ron makes a noise of surprise, and he drops the knife, fingers scratching at the skin of Carl's arms hard enough to draw blood -- but even then, he doesn't let go. Somewhere in front of them, Beth is climbing to her feet.</p><p> </p><p>Ron notices this -- somehow, he gains enough strength to yank one of Carl's arms away from his throat.</p><p> </p><p>The next thing Carl knows, he is being thrown back, his side crashing into the hard metal of the cornucopia, and he gasps, cringing as pain blossoms on the entirety of his left side. <em> That's going to leave a bruise -- </em>Carl can't help but think. But then he hears Beth shout, and his attention is pulled away. Carl scrambles to his feet, looking up, eyes searching-</p><p> </p><p>-only to see Ron burying one of his knives deep into Beth's stomach. </p><p> </p><p>Beth gasps as the blade penetrates her skin, her blue eyes going wide with a mix of shock and pain. Ron grins, yanking the knife out as Beth falls, but the grin is quickly wiped from his face as Carl runs forward, ramming his shoulder into the older boy's chest. Ron lets out a startled cry, trying to grab onto something, but it's no use -- the push sends the redhead toppling over the edge of the cornucopia and into the hundreds upon hundreds of snarling creatures below. </p><p> </p><p>Carl can only stare.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I did it... </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Carl steps back from the edge, exhaling slowly, shakily, and squeezing his eye shut as Ron's screams echo throughout the arena -- the creatures tear at his body just as they had done with Randall. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Beth. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Carl spins around, his eye snapping open. Beth is lying against the cold roof of the cornucopia, and for a second, he believes her to be dead, but then he spies the way her chest rises slowly. A cry of relief tears through Carl as he drops to his knees beside the older girl right as her eyes fluttered open. Beth's gaze lands on him right as the cannon signaling Ron's death sounds -- she smiles, reaching up a blood-stained hand to touch Carl's cheek.</p><p> </p><p>"You're okay..." She says, her voice growing quieter, almost like she's falling asleep. Carl stares down at her before his eye drifts down to her stomach, where her shirt is stained red. The wound is oozing with more and more blood even as Beth presses her other hand to it. Her skin is slick with ash and sweat, and her eyelashes flutter against her cheeks as she struggles to keep her eyes open. </p><p> </p><p>"Beth..." Carl chokes out, feeling his throat close up. He quickly pulls off his jacket and presses it to Beth's stomach, trying desperately to stop the bleeding. He has to stop this... he can save her, he just- "you'll be alright, you're going to be okay. Just hold on-"</p><p> </p><p>"Carl..." Beth tries, her hand dropping back down to her side, "don't..."</p><p> </p><p>Carl shakes his head, pressing the jacket harder against her stomach even as Beth's blood soaks through the fabric and oozes from between his fingers. "You're going to be okay." He insists. "You're going to be just fine."</p><p> </p><p>She gives him a sad smile. "We both know that isn't true," she says breathily, and the effort every word takes is written clearly on her face, "honestly... I wouldn't have it any other way." She laughs, but it turns into a coughing fit moments later. Her teeth are covered in blood -- her sleeve is covered in blood. </p><p> </p><p>"What..." Carl stares down at her, confused, "what do you mean?"</p><p> </p><p>Beth looks up at him, "I always knew... I always knew that you'd be the one getting out of here. I wouldn't be able to live with myself if you died." Beth stops for a moment, her breathing growing more and more labored as she struggles to speak, "After Ben died... I promised myself I would get you out of here, and here you are..." </p><p> </p><p>Carl shakes his head, "But your family-"</p><p> </p><p>"They'll understand," she murmurs, "I always knew I wasn't getting out of here anyway."</p><p> </p><p>He presses harder against her stomach, his vision blurring with tears, "Please... please, you can't leave me. It was supposed to be you - not me! You were supposed to go home-" He remembers last night, recalls how the two of them had been talking about their families, about how much they miss them. "You were supposed to see your family again... go to your sister's wedding..."</p><p> </p><p>"You can go for me," Beth whispers, smiling -- there's blood trickling down from the corners of her mouth, "you'd like them - Glenn, Maggie, Daddy..." Beth reaches up, brushing a strand of hair out of Carl's eye so she can see his face, "...think you can do that?"</p><p> </p><p>Carl chokes back a sob, but he nods, blinking furiously. "I can... I can do that..." he doesn't dare mention how the Capitol might not allow that. Tears are running freely down his cheek now, and he stares down at Beth, hating the feeling of helplessness that overcomes him, "...you'll take care of Andre for me?" </p><p> </p><p>"Of course..." Beth promises, and Carl can't stop the sob that escapes him. "I'll say hi to Benjamin too..." she looks up at the sky, her smile widening slightly, "it'll be nice to see Shawn and Mama again."</p><p> </p><p>"Thank you..." Carl whispers hoarsely, "for everything... I wouldn't have made it this far without you." Beth's gaze drifts back to him -- her eyes are cloudier now. It's only a matter of time before the life fades from them completely. Carl's throat closes up -- he can hardly even breathe.</p><p> </p><p>Oh god, is this really happening?</p><p> </p><p>"Thank you for being an amazing friend..." she whispers back, "say hi to your little sister for me." He doesn't bother wondering why she thinks his sibling will be a girl -- he doesn't ask either. </p><p> </p><p>"I will," he promises. Distantly, he realizes it's begun to rain. The groans of the dead ones are gone too -- probably called back to their cages.</p><p> </p><p>Beth seems satisfied by his answer, and her eyes begin to drift shut, "can... can you-" another coughing fit interrupts her, and Carl tries not to look at the blood that splatters onto her chin as droplets of rain start washing it away.</p><p> </p><p>Carl brushes Beth's hair back from her forehead, sticky with sweat, ash, and blood. "Yes?"</p><p> </p><p>"Think you can sing for me...? I wanna hear somethin' other than snarling and rain before I go..."</p><p> </p><p>Carl nods, blinking furiously. He isn't much of a singer, but he isn't about to deny Beth her last request. A song comes to mind -- it's an old tune... the one she had sung at the interviews, but Carl can also recall hearing his dad singing it to him and Andre when they had been younger. It had been one of his favorites -- he remembers that now. </p><p> </p><p>How he had even forgotten it in the first place is a mystery to him. </p><p> </p><p>Taking in a deep breath, Carl moves Beth's head into his lap, brushing another sweaty strand of hair from her face. He breathes the lyrics out -- voice soft and unsure -- and the darkness of the arena suddenly seems oh too fitting. </p><p> </p><p>
  <b> <em>Of all the money that e'er I had...</em> </b>
</p><p>
  <b> <em>I spent it in good company...</em> </b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b> <em>And all the harm that e'er I've done...</em> </b>
</p><p>
  <b> <em>Alas, it was to none but me...</em> </b>
</p><p> </p><p>Beth blinks her eyes open, smiling softly as the words echo around her. "Love this song..." she murmurs, her voice slurred. Carl tries to smile, but it comes out as more of a grimace. He feels more tears trickling down his cheek, the hot flames now flickering at the side of the cornucopia. It's uncomfortable, but despite all this, his only focus is on the dying girl lying before him. Her blonde hair sticks to her forehead, her skin pale and clammy -- Carl can't help but think she looks just as beautiful as she always had, even on her deathbed.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b> <em>And all I've done for want of wit...</em> </b>
</p><p>
  <b> <em>To mem'ry, now I can't recall...</em> </b>
</p><p> </p><p>He wonders if the cameras are showing this right now -- or had they just cut off the footage as soon as things started getting emotional. Carl wouldn't be surprised if they had. Below him, Beth's chest gave one last shudder -- she exhales slowly seconds later, and her eyes flutter shut for the final time. There's a smile on her face; he can't help but notice. </p><p> </p><p>
  <b> <em>So fill to me the parting glass...</em> </b>
</p><p>
  <b> <em>Good night and joy be with you all...</em> </b>
</p><p>   </p><p>Beth's grip on his hand loosens.</p><p> </p><p>A cannon sounds. The trumpets blare. Sherry's familiar voice echoes around the arena, declaring him the winner of the Games.</p><p> </p><p>Carl Grimes is the victor of the 95th Hunger Games.</p><p> </p><p>He sits there totally frozen, tears streaming down his cheeks, chest heaving as his side aches. The pain is distant, almost nonexistent and nothing compared to what he feels inside. </p><p> </p><p>His eye is fixated on Beth's limp body, on the girl he had only known for less than two months but had meant so much to him despite it. </p><p> </p><p>He reaches out, mind numb with shock, and brushes her hair away from her face, the last line from the song escaping his lips and echoing throughout the arena, like a prayer he knows can't be answered.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b> <em>Good night and joy be with you all…</em> </b>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Going Home</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Carl doesn't know what is going on anymore. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He recalls Beth's body falling still and the cannon sounding seconds later, remembers hearing the announcer's voice as he declared </span>
  <em>
    <span>him </span>
  </em>
  <span>as the winner of the 95th Hunger Games -- he remembers there being a hovercraft above him, remembers seeing people coming down. Carl remembers them walking toward him, remembers one of them grabbing him, remembers feeling a pinching sensation in his neck, and then there being total darkness. But after that, he is only half-aware of his surroundings -- of the sterile white walls, long silences, and nurses who he only sees glimpses of but never ever seem to speak. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Carl doesn't know how much time passes either. It's like he's in an endless circle of being semi-conscious and completely unconscious -- the only thing he is always aware of each time is the pounding in his head and the ache in his heart. But after what feels like an eternity, Carl finally wakes up fully. The first thing he notices is that he is in a room where everything is white: the blankets covering him, the floor, the bed, the bedside table, the ceiling, his clothes, and the door. Everything is white, and he, for a second, wonders if he's dead -- if he had drowned at the river or died at the hands of the Careers, and this was what heaven looks like. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>No, wait, it can't be heaven. Carl remembers shoving Ron into the waiting hands of those creatures that had torn him apart, remembers sneaking up on and killing Anne and slitting the girl from District 4's throat, he remembers stabbing the girl from District 5 over and over again -- remembers </span>
  <em>
    <span>enjoying </span>
  </em>
  <span>it. There is no way he is going to heaven after doing that to all those people -- those </span>
  <em>
    <span>kids </span>
  </em>
  <span>. Even if Carl hated Ron for what he did to him and his friends, </span>
  <em>
    <span>no one </span>
  </em>
  <span>deserved a death like that one. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>So... hell it is then. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>But he isn't dead -- the pain thrumming throughout his body tells him that. His throat is dry while his stomach twists and churns with the need for food, and, for one horrible, panic-filled second, Carl wonders if he's back in the arena. If he had fallen unconscious because of the lack of any food or water and everything that happened after was just hallucinations made up by his fading mind. The moment that thought enters his mind, he is gripped with fear -- paralyzing, cold, and suffocating fear. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>But then his thoughts clear up a little bit more, and everything floods back to him in one giant wave, assuring him that all of it really had happened: his missing eye, Benjamin's death, the jungle on fire, the rotting creatures stumbling out from the treeline, Randall being torn apart, climbing up onto the cornucopia, Ron and Beth fighting, Carl being thrown aside and-</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Beth.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Carl shoots out of bed -- or at least he tries to. He doesn't get very far before a thick metal bar wrapped around his abdomen stops him. Carl cries out in a mix of surprise and pain as his ribs bang against the bar pinning him down in a way hard enough to leave bruises. He whimpers, trying to move his hands only to find out that they are also pinned to the bed -- with heavy cuffs attached to the bedframe -- and that's when the fear and panic wells up inside him in one giant wave. Carl starts thrashing, his breath catching in his throat as the walls of the room seemingly close in around him. The air feels too thick to breathe in, making his vision swim -- that only makes his panic worsen.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He shrieks in surprise when a figure suddenly appears at his side. It's a nurse -- that doesn't get Carl's panic to lessen. The nurse doesn't seem to sense this, and she grabs him by the shoulders, making a soft shushing noise as she tries to ease him back down. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"No, stop-" Carl cries out, trying to shake the unfamiliar hands away from his shoulders, "Let me go!"</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Beth is-</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>She-</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>The nurse doesn't say a word, though she does let go of his shoulders. She steps back, moving around the bed until she is on Carl's right side -- his blind side. Carl jerks his head, trying to get a glimpse of her, but he doesn’t need to, for she reappears moments later on his left side with a glass of water clasped in her hands. She presses the cup to Carl's mouth, and while he tries to move his head away, the dryness in his throat reminds him of just how thirsty he is, so he drinks: the water is cold and fresh, soothing his overly parched throat, and in seconds, Carl has drained the whole glass. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm dead-" Carl murmurs, his voice coming out raspy and hoarse from disuse, "I should be dead - have to be-"</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Beth-</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Carl feels the tears well up in his eye, and he stares at the nurse as she sets down the empty glass on the bedside table. The nurse then looks up, her eyes meeting his. She straightens up, giving Carl a sad smile before making her way toward the door on the far side of the room -- she leaves. All without saying a single word.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Is she an Avox?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Carl doesn't spend long thinking about this. All he can focus on is the fact that he is </span>
  <em>
    <span>alive </span>
  </em>
  <span>while Beth isn't. </span>
  <em>
    <span>That shouldn't have been how things ended -- </span>
  </em>
  <span>Carl thinks despite the panic that is wrapping around him like an invisible snake, suffocating him -- Beth deserved to go home more than Carl did. She should be here... not him. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I wouldn't be able to live with myself if you died -- </span>
  </em>
  <span>that's what Beth had said to him before she had breathed her last breath, but had she ever considered that he wouldn't be able to live with himself if </span>
  <em>
    <span>she </span>
  </em>
  <span>died?</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>The door opens, and the mute nurse (who is possibly an Avox) enters the room once more, with her face just as, if not more solemn than before. Moments later, she is followed by an unfamiliar woman donned in a white coat, pants, and shirt that is just as blinding as the rest of the room -- she looks like one of those doctors Carl had seen in picture books when he was younger. He then realizes that is just what this woman is, a doctor. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"Good to see you awake, Mr. Grimes," the woman says, walking up to the bed Carl is lying on. She then sits down beside him, and though Carl tries to move away, the restraints on his wrists and abdomen stop him from getting far. The doctor doesn't seem to notice Carl's reluctance to be near her, that or she just doesn't care. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It's probably the latter.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>The woman asks how Carl is feeling, he doesn't respond. Then, she asks about his eye and if it is causing him any pain -- it doesn't, Carl realizes -- it had constantly been aching before, but now it's just... numb -- despite this realization, he still doesn't respond. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Because Beth is dead, and Carl is alive -- he's the Victor. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>The youngest Victor in ninety-five years, the doctor tells him, surpassing even Finnick Odair, who had won forty years ago at age fourteen. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>But it should have been Beth -- she should have been the Victor. She deserved it more than him...</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Carl feels his breathing begin to quicken, feels his heart pounding like thunder in his chest. It happens in a matter of seconds, too quick for him to tell what's going on. His throat closes up, his eye burns, and his vision swims. He feels like he's underwater, and upon seeing the nurse injecting some kind of liquid into an IV attached to his arm, the feeling only worsens. "No... no, please - I can't... I can't-" the words spill from his mouth like a waterfall, panicked and pleading. "Please... I can't - should've been her - STOP IT-" But both the nurse and the doctor ignore him, and he can hardly see their faces because his vision is blurred from tears. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Carl doesn't even realize that he's sobbing until his head grows heavy -- when the drugs they put into his IV bag take effect -- and he can't even muster the energy to keep his eye open before he is dragged once more into the darkness. </span>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>Carl has no idea how long he's been kept asleep, but when he blinks open his eye, he is in the same white room as before. Everything -- the floors, the walls, the blankets -- is the same except for his mentor, who is now sitting in a chair at Carl's bedside -- the man stands out like a sore thumb in his trademark black vest with a black shirt underneath it. He looks just how he had when Carl had last seen him, but there's something different -- something unbelievably solemn -- about the way he looks at Carl. And when he sees that Carl is awake, the look on the man's face just grows even sadder.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>The restraints are no longer there, Carl notices. Daryl moves to his side, helping Carl into a more comfortable position -- sitting with his back against the countless pillows stacked against the headboard. Once Carl is up, Daryl steps away, turning and pulling the chair that he had been seated in further up before sitting back down again. Then, he stares at Carl. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"S'just us two," Daryl says after a moment, rubbing a hand over his face. He looks tired -- Carl can't help but notice, more so than he had been the last time Carl had seen him. "Told those fuckers to leave ya alone for a bit and t'stop druggin' you - couldn't be good for your system, and you've been through too much shit already."</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Carl stares at him for a long moment, but then a glimmer catches his attention, and he lets his gaze drift over to the tiny bedside table next to him -- he sees his mom's necklace. The silver circle with the katana carved into it is stained with blood and muck; clearly no one had bothered cleaning it. Carl reaches out, carefully taking the chain into his hands -- he presses it to his chest, taking in a slow and shuddering breath before looking back up at Daryl.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"What do you m-" he trails off, staring down at the necklace placed in his right hand -- because Daryl has a point, although he isn't being drugged anymore, his mind still feels slow and sluggish, which is probably a side-effect of the drugs the Capitol had put into his IV. "She's dead..." Carl says quietly, "She's... she didn't - I don't-" tears burn at the corner of Carl's eye, and he shakes his head, trying to push them back, "she didn't deserve that..." he whispers finally. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>She should've won -- </span>
  </em>
  <span>are the words that go unsaid.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Understanding dawns in Daryl's eyes, and the man heaves a heavy sigh, a grim look on his face, and, in an almost unheard of show of affection, he reaches out, covering Carl's trembling left hand with his own -- Daryl's hand is large, totally engulfing Carl's. The action is surprisingly comforting, but it does nothing to stop the way Carl's throat closes up as the panic and fear from earlier soon returns, clawing at his insides and making it hard for him to breathe.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>The blood pounds in his ears as his heart thunders in his chest hard enough he's surprised it doesn't just burst right out. His hands tremble more and more, and Carl nearly drops his mom's necklace. His vision is blurred with tears, and the gaping black spot on the right side of his face where his other eye should be only causes his tears to worsen, making his vision more and more disfigured. Beth's face swims into view, but her eyes are lifeless and blank. Benjamin's face appears next -- but there's blood dribbling from his mouth. His eyes are equally as empty. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"Kid, look at me," Daryl commands, and Carl does, "you need'ta breathe." </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Breathe. Yes... that's right... that was a good idea... just breathe. Breathing is good.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Carl's grip on his necklace tightens until his knuckles turn white. There is something warm and kind of dry surrounding his other hand -- Carl forces himself to focus on that. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Inhale...</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>His hands tremble a little less.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Wait a few seconds...</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>His vision clears a little bit.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Exhale...</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>The invisible snake around his throat disappears. Carl can finally breathe again.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm..." Carl takes in a shuddering breath, the grip on his mom's necklace loosening somewhat, "I'm sorry..." He's not entirely sure what he's apologizing for, and he's much too tired to think about it for long. He reaches up a hand, wiping away the moisture around his eye. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"Y'shouldn't be," Daryl says, withdrawing his hand, "you went through hell out there; shouldn't be sorry for anything, 'specially for winning." </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"It should have been her," Carl whispers -- his hands have started shaking again, and he grips his mom's necklace a little tighter, "not me..."</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Something in Daryl's expression changes, but Carl can't tell what it is. "The girl wanted you to win," the man says.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"Yeah? Well, I didn't!" Carl snaps at him, dropping the necklace and gripping his hair with both of his hands as he leans forward. He notices that his arm, just like his eye, doesn't hurt anymore either. "Beth was my friend, Daryl! She saved my life when she could have just left me and-" Carl chokes on a sob, hands moving to cover his face, "-she saved my life </span>
  <em>
    <span>twice, </span>
  </em>
  <span>but I couldn't even save hers once... and I just... I could've-"</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"Kid, you wouldn't have been able to do shit," Daryl says mercilessly, "the Games only allow one Victor - she would have died anyway." The man then sighs, leaning back. "The Capitol is going nuts, by the way."</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Carl pulls his hands away from his face to stare at Daryl, "w-what?"</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Daryl gives him a humorless smile. "It ain't anythin' too horrible, really," the man assures him, "S'just no one expected you't make it past the first hour, much less the first day, so when ya turned out to be a lil' cold blooded killer that managed to take out four of the tributes - three of which being Careers - they all pretty much lost their shit." </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Killer.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Slowly, Carl reaches down, picking up his mom's necklace from where he had dropped it on the blankets. He stares at it for a couple moments before carefully wrapping the chain loosely around his neck, clicking the two ends together and letting the silver circle rest directly over his chest.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm not-" Carl starts but then cuts himself off, fisting his hands in the spotless white sheets, because he </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>a killer. He had killed four out of the twenty-three other tributes, and while he hadn't been the one to personally kill Ron, he still had shoved the redhead off the cornucopia to be torn apart by those dead creatures with hungry yellow eyes, snapping teeth, and rotting gray skin. "I didn't want to..." he says instead, but the words feel hollow and empty on his tongue. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>A killer </span>
  </em>
  <span>-- that's what Carl is. He's a killer.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Daryl must've noticed the look on his face, for he reaches out again, resting a hand on Carl's shoulder and looking down at him sadly. "You're not a bad person, Carl."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Carl shakes his head, not quite believing him. "I killed them-" he gasps out, his eye beginning to burn again. He tries focusing on his hands, but his efforts are futile. The tears that Carl had attempted to hold back start to spill down his cheeks once more. "I killed them..."</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The girl from District 5 with her wide eyes, filled with fear as Carl swung the blade down- </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Carl's hands shook.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The girl from District 4, whose only crime was being at the wrong place at the wrong time -- who would have lived if she had simply stayed asleep. But she hadn't, and Carl had slit her throat without a second thought-</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>A sob escapes him -- he wonders if the girl had felt any pain.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The girl from District 1, who had been painfully oblivious of the way Carl was creeping over to her until the moment she had fallen to the ground, dead-</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He had hardly thought about her until now -- Carl chokes on another sob.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And then Ron... probably the only one Carl was glad died. But never had he imagined the redhead would die the way he did. With teeth ripping at him, tearing at his flesh as bloodcurdling screams escaped from him-</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Daryl gets up from the chair. Then, he sits down on the mattress next to Carl, staring at him for a long moment -- looking unsure -- before slowly reaching out and pulling the crying boy into his arms. He says nothing as Carl immediately clings to him, fisting his hands in the dark fabric of his shirt as his body shakes and shudders. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"I killed them," Carl whispers, his voice breaking and muffled against Daryl's shirt, "I killed them..."</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Daryl stays quiet as Carl cries, just holding him as he falls apart. </span>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>Ten days.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>That's how long it had been since Carl had won the 95th Hunger Games -- how long it had been since Beth had died. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He had been let out of the medbay two days ago and had been shown back to his room in the Tribute Tower -- it's just as pretty as he remembers it being, with a marvelous view that overlooks most of the city. The food the Capitol has given to him is rich and flavorful and much better than the food he had been eating in the arena, but it tastes like dirt and ash in his mouth -- it makes him want to throw up. All Carl can focus on is the numbness in his mind and the hollowness in his chest because both Ben and Beth are dead; his friends are gone, and while the information that he'll get to go home to his family helps slightly, it doesn't make the world any less gray.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>The moment he collapses into bed -- into the soft sheets and fluffy blankets -- he bursts into tears. He screams and sobs and wails until he has no more tears left to shed. He cries until his head aches, his eye is puffy and red, and he hardly has any energy left to stay awake any longer. When Laura comes to bring him to breakfast, Carl barely eats any of it, and when he retreats back to his room right after, not even Daryl tries to follow. Later that day, he finds himself in the bathroom -- not because he needs to use it, but for a whole different reason entirely.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Carl stares at himself in the mirror.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He looks relatively the same at first glance. But the more that Carl stares and stares and stares, he can easily spy the various differences that mar his body. There's a hollowness in his cheeks that hadn't been there before -- not even back at District 11, where the people there hardly get enough to eat -- and when Carl lifts his shirt, he is able to count each of his ribs without any trouble. A dark bag lingers under his remaining eye, which looks haunted and sad. And when Carl unwraps the bandage covering his missing one-</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>It's bad.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Really bad.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Carl hadn't been able to get a glimpse of it during the Games. He had almost always kept the bandage on it, only taking it off when Beth needed to change it, but he had never seen it himself. At least, not until now. The wound is still raw, and while it doesn't hurt much anymore, it looks... really, really disgusting. How Beth had even been able to look at it without cringing or flinching is a mystery to him. Hell, the fact that she had been able to keep him alive after Ron had cut it out is a mystery to him. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Luck, perhaps.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Probably not. Carl doesn't feel very lucky.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>In fact, he feels the opposite of lucky.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He sighs.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>There's a sudden banging on the door.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Carl jumps, a scream lodging itself into the back of his throat. He only just manages to hold it back.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"Carl?" Laura's voice calls out seconds later, slightly muffled from the walls standing between them. "Are you okay? You've been in there for an awfully long time."</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Has he?</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Carl stares at his reflection in the mirror.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He stares at the gaping hole on the right side of his face -- at the scars that still remain on his fingers despite the Capitol’s care. He stares at the hair that suddenly looks much too long, at the body that suddenly seems way too thin. He's still wearing his mom's necklace. Slowly, Carl reaches for the roll of bandages he had left on the countertop, carefully rewrapping his face.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"Carl?" Laura calls again, the worry in her voice much more prominent.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>She tries opening the door -- thankfully, Carl had locked it.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"Y-Yeah, I'm fine," Carl says finally.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Are you? </span>
  </em>
  <span>A voice within him whispers. It sounds eerily like Beth.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Carl ignores it.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"You sure?" Laura asks. "You've been in here for nearly forty minutes now."</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Oh...</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Had he?</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"Sorry," Carl says, "Just... thinking-" he shakes his head, sighing, "I'll be out in a bit." </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"Okay, good. Daryl wants to talk to you about something, by the way." Laura murmurs, and he listens carefully as her footsteps fade away. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Carl doesn't move an inch for a minute or two.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Then, finally, he sighs, turning toward the door.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>The metal of the doorknob feels cold to the touch.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Just like Beth's lifeless body had been...</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Just another child lost. Just another dead girl…</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Carl grits his teeth and opens the door.</span>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>Daryl is sitting on the couch when Carl goes out to find him. When the man sees him in the doorway, he pats the open spot next to him, clearly gesturing for Carl to sit down. Carl approaches slowly and does as asked, shifting uncomfortably as his body sinks into the sofa -- he misses the ones at District 11, they're less soft, but at least Carl doesn't have to worry about drowning in them. Daryl doesn't say a word for a long while, and so the silence wears on. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"You wanted to see me?" Carl asks after a few minutes, breaking the silence.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Daryl nods, his face carefully blank. "Yer coronation is comin' up."</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>It's only five words, but it's enough to make Carl freeze -- he hadn't exactly forgotten that the Victors were supposed to get interviewed after the Games, but he had been hoping that maybe it wouldn’t even happen -- though he should have known what a foolish hope that had been.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"What do you want me to do in it?" asks Carl weakly once he is able to regain his bearings. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Daryl stares at him for a long few moments. Then, he sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. "Can't do the same shit we did for the interviews before the Games. That innocent façade you had? That shit won't work now."</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Carl frowns. "Why not?" And then. "Not all of that was a façade, you know." </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Daryl gives him a dry look. "Those people, they're gonna be expecting the cold-hearted Victor they saw on screen - the one who killed three people without feeling any remorse, the one who lost his eye, survived, and pushed a kid into a pit of man-eating monsters. They want to see that you, not the innocent little boy who everyone thought would die on the first day."</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Carl flinches, and he hates how right Daryl is. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Daryl sees the flinch, and he sighs. "Lisen, kid - I know you'd rather skip this whole thing, trust me, I would have done the same if I could, but ya can't. This shit? It's required."</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"But-"</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"Shut it-" Carl flinches again, and while Daryl's face flashes briefly with guilt, he doesn't apologize. "Kid, if you wanna go home, you have to do this. Don't argue, don't ask questions, and most importantly, you need to pretend you don't </span>
  <em>
    <span>care. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Your friend - Beth - she'd want you to do this, 'specially if it means you'll be safe. Your friends might be gone, but you still have a family waitin' for you. Don't forget that." </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Carl stares at him, stunned. "So what? You want me to pretend to be some cold-hearted killer who doesn't give a shit about anything?" </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"Exactly." Daryl smiles, but it's grim. "Kid, I didn' have anyone to tell me this when I won. Didn’t care much at the time. Thought I didn’t need anyone to tell me shit. Was on my own, and that cost my brother his life."</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Wait, what?</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"You had a brother?" Carl asks, shocked. There had never been any mention of Daryl having a brother in District 11. Then again, Daryl had won years before Carl was born, so it's not exactly a surprise that Carl had never heard of this 'brother.' "What... what happened?"</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Daryl shrugs. "What d'you think happened? I pissed off the Capitol, and he got killed 'cause of it." The man lets out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. "Dropped a Tracker-jacker hive on 'im, the fuckers brushed it off as an accident."</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Carl furrowed his brows, trying not to shudder. "But... don't Tracker-jackers make hives on really, really large branches? How could they make one fall on him?"</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"Cause they planted one in a place they knew it would fall," Daryl responds curtly, "and if you ain't careful... if ya don't play along with the Capitol's games, they'll do the same thing to your family. Prolly not in the same way, but..." Daryl shrugs, "you get what I mean."</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Yes, Carl does get what he means -- more so than he'd like.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Carl looks down -- his hands are shaking.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He looks back at Daryl, a new determination filling him. "Tell me what I need to do."</span>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>The coronation is a big event. It always is.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>And Carl is a nervous wreck.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>The fact that the Capitol actually expects him to willingly go out there to talk and entertain people and act in front of lights and various flashing cameras -- especially after what happened in the arena just seems so... stupid -- like adding salt to a wound. But when Princess knocks on his door to help him get ready, some of that anxiety goes away, though he's still unable to muster up even the smallest of smiles. It doesn't help that the moment she sees him, Princess immediately reaches out to hug him. While he knows she won’t harm him, the swift movement causes Carl to flinch back, and she sees it -- a look of guilt flashes across her face, and she drops her hands back down to her sides. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"Sorry, kiddo," she had said, "should've known you'd be jumpy."</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Carl had just nodded, not having any idea of what to say to that. After that, he listens half-heartedly to Princess's costume ideas, and when she picks out an outfit for him -- a black suit with blood red accents and bits of silver glitter scattered in his hair -- he hardly protests. It's a pretty tame outfit by Capitol standards, but Carl really can't muster up enough energy to care. Princess says it makes him look dangerous, and while Carl doesn't really understand what she means at first, she shows him how he looks in a mirror, and he understands all too well. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Alone, the suit just looks fancy. But added with the weight Carl had lost during the Games cutting angles into his face and the dark eyeshadow Princess had insisted on putting on his remaining eye, it makes the whole outfit look ten times more... unsettling. And since Princess had chosen to leave the gaping wound on his face out on display (something Carl had protested about at first), it makes him look like an entirely different person. Almost like a demon that had been taken out right from hell. Perfect for the persona that Daryl wants him to put on.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>And not that far off from what he actually is. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Carl takes a deep breath and shoves both his hands into his pockets, watching the television as the clock ticked closer and closer to the moment he would step out onto the stage. Princess is watching a few feet away, biting her lower lip as she adjusts the bright pink fur jacket she now wears. She almost looks as nervous as he is, but as Carl's mind whirls and whirls, he doubts that's the case.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He rakes a hand through his hair, and though she gives him a warning look, Princess doesn't stop him. A few minutes pass by in silence, and Carl glances up when he hears footsteps outside his room. The door opens, and Daryl and Laura step inside the room, both of them pausing when their gazes find Carl. He shifts uncomfortably, unconsciously inching toward Princess. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Then, Daryl snorts. "Well, you look creepy as shit." </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>The way the man says it causes the smallest of smiles to appear on Carl's face, though it falls seconds later. When had the last time he smiled been, anyway? </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn't know. He can't remember. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Princess places her hands on her hips. "That was the goal - isn't that what you told me to go for? Dangerous?" </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"Didn't actually expect ya to do so well," Daryl says in response, "thought you would give up, shove him in a suit, and be done with it." </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Laura rolls her eyes at her companion's words. "Well, you did an amazing job, Princess. Carl looks great." She turns to him, "speaking of which, how are you feeling?"</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"Nervous," Carl admits.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"Would be stupid not t'be," Daryl says, glancing toward the television, "y'ready?"</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Carl breathes a tense exhale before nodding, resisting the urge to run his hand through his hair again. "Ready."</span>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>The moment Carl steps onto stage, he is greeted with various bright and near blinding lights, thunderous cheering from the audience, and at least a hundred cameras suddenly focused on him. It's even more overwhelming than it had been at the interviews before the Games had begun, and Carl has to fight back the urge to turn and flee -- something he wants to do more than anything. But he doesn't -- instead, he crosses to the front of the stage, face carefully blank as Daryl had taught him, and shakes Sherry's hand, sitting down and briefly acknowledging the still screaming audience with the smallest of nods. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>That only serves to heighten their excitement, making Carl immediately regret doing it at all. But he refuses to let it show, Daryl's words bouncing around his head as a constant reminder of what would happen if he didn't. The moment that he sits down, a strange sensation suddenly falls over him -- a sickening numbness that keeps him on an autopilot of sorts. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Ignore it, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Carl tells himself, flattening his palms to his pants and breathing a tense inhale, </span>
  <em>
    <span>do what Daryl told you -- play the part, and everyone will be just fine.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"Carl Grimes, my oh my, how wonderful it is to see you," Sherry exclaims as the audience finally starts to quiet down, "I'm going to be honest, I don't think anyone was expecting to see </span>
  <em>
    <span>you </span>
  </em>
  <span>sitting here at the end of the Games." Her eyes dart to the hole in his face for a split second before quickly moving away -- the action hurts more than Carl had anticipated, and he absently untucks a strand of hair from his face, letting it fall in front of his eye, or lack of one.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"I don't think many did," Carl replies coolly, tilting his head. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>The audience goes nuts all over again.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Carl really wants to smack them.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"No, I suppose not," Sherry says, a smile on her face -- it's not as bright as it had been last time she had interviewed him, "then again, it's not every day a twelve-year-old goes into the arena and comes out alive. The youngest Victor in nearly a century! Beating even Finnick Odair! What a feat!" </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>The crowd goes nuts again. Carl ignores them once more.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>The interview part is probably the easiest one. Carl gives short, clipped answers as Daryl had told him too -- he talks about his unborn little sibling and his parents all waiting for him back at home. Talks about what his strategy had been in the Games -- which was to pretty much avoid all tributes and hope he wouldn't die. Though, of course, Carl gave them a more glorified version of it, and the crowd eats it all up without any hesitation, cheering loud enough to deafen him at some points and sighing sadly at others. And when Sherry asks for him to show his eye -- or the lack thereof -- he does so without complaint -- the crowd gasps and coos in sympathy. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Carl had half hoped they would be more disgusted by it, and he has to swallow down the anger that rises within him every time Sherry asks him a question or someone in the audience coos or makes even the slightest of noises that indicate sympathy. These people are the reasons he had been put into the Hunger Games in the first place. These people are the reason he had been ripped from his family -- why he had lost his </span>
  <em>
    <span>eye. </span>
  </em>
  <span>They are the reason his </span>
  <em>
    <span>friends </span>
  </em>
  <span>are </span>
  <em>
    <span>dead </span>
  </em>
  <span>and the reason why he is now plagued by nightmares each and every single night. They had been the cause of so much </span>
  <em>
    <span>pain </span>
  </em>
  <span>and </span>
  <em>
    <span>suffering</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and they actually have the gall to feel </span>
  <em>
    <span>sorry </span>
  </em>
  <span>for him?</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Bullshit. All of it is such</span>
  <em>
    <span> bullshit.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>But then the highlight reel starts to play on the screen, and Carl forgets all about that. Even if it's only for a little bit -- because he sees Beth and Benjamin healthy, smiling, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>alive. </span>
  </em>
  <span>The first time the two appear on screen, it's sometime after the Bloodbath, and they had somehow managed to escape together. Seeing and hearing the two of them makes Carl's breath catch and his throat close up; his eye begins to burn, and his chest starts to ache, but he holds those tears back and forces his face to remain blank because he </span>
  <em>
    <span>can't </span>
  </em>
  <span>let them break that persona Daryl built for him. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He watches himself stab the District 5 girl -- whose name he learns was Athena -- to death and watches again as the girl from District 6 gets torn apart by the water creatures; </span>
  <em>
    <span>crocodiles, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Sherry tells the crowd, animals who live in wet climates with sharp teeth and a deadly bite. He sees the Careers kill the boy from 12, and one of those gray-skinned, people-like mutts feast on the screaming, bleeding body of the District 12 girl. He sees the Careers stumble across Beth and Benjamin and watches with his heart in his throat as they chase the two throughout the jungle before eventually losing sight of them. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>They paint Carl as some kind of ninja or master assassin of sorts. They don't show many of the parts where Carl is crying, scared, or confused -- instead, they play the scenes where Carl is more cunning, where he's more ruthless and murderous (which is disturbingly often). Carl's face doesn't so much as twitch as he watches himself sneak into the Career camp, and he watches with morbid curiosity as he's carried by the swirling flood, only to save himself mere seconds before death could claim him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He doesn't even recognize his face on the screen; blank and emotionless most times -- always splattered with some kind of mud or blood. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Benjamin's death is met with loud sighs of sympathy and the occasional sniffle by the audience, and Carl has to bite the inside of his mouth hard enough that it bleeds to stop himself from showing any sign of grief. The part where Ron cuts his eye out is gory, but Carl can't tear his gaze away -- and the death of the District 10 girl is worse than he thought, happening at the Career's hands. The cameras focus on Ron and Randall a lot while Carl is asleep before flicking back to Beth and Carl when he wakes. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Beth.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Benjamin. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He misses them so much that it hurts. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I won't lie, I was definitely crying when the end came around, Carl," Sherry says, and the audience murmurs their agreement, some of them having now begun to sniffle. Carl stills as the clip playing on screen changes to the final battle of the Games. Of Carl and Beth going over their plan to kill Ron and Randall -- him setting the forest on fire, Randall's death, climbing up the cornucopia to get away from the mutts. And then Ron attacking them, Carl leaping onto his back only to be thrown to the side -- he had been very close to falling off the edge, Carl realizes as a shudder shoots down his spine. If things had gone even the slightest bit different, he could've shared the exact same fate as Randall and Ron.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>But Carl doesn't get long to ponder about this because there he is -- holding Beth's head in his arms as the life slowly drains from her body. It's with a morbid fascination that Carl listens as his voice echos out from the screen -- onscreen, he sings softly, voice cracking as he reaches the final few lines, but other than the rain falling from around them, it's the only sound -- and that gives it an eerie feeling. A haunting one. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Carl's hands are trembling. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He shoves them into his lap, breathing deeply and praying that no one had noticed. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Sherry wipes away her tears. "An emotional scene indeed," she remarks, and Carl wants to scream -- because Beth's death had been </span>
  <em>
    <span>their </span>
  </em>
  <span>fault; she would have still been alive if it weren't for them, they had no right to start crying about it. But Sherry continues, oblivious to the thoughts whirling around his head. "Tell me, Carl, what was going through your head during Beth's final few moments?"</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"I don't know - I wasn't really thinking." Not exactly a complete lie. "I was kind of... shocked. You know?" As he speaks, he finally lets the mask covering his face break -- and his voice cracks with grief. For some reason, that makes the audience even more excited. "I always expected her to win. So when I saw her lying there..." Carl shakes his head, letting his hair fall in his face, "kept going 'what if I'd been faster? What if I held onto Ron for a second longer?' I knew that we couldn't both win... but I just felt so... helpless." </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He still does feel helpless. The guilt and grief pulls at his heart, painful and unrelenting, and for the first time since he had woken up, the truth finally seems to settle in entirely -- Beth is gone. Benjamin is gone. This isn’t a nightmare, and they aren’t coming back.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He wants to scream -- he wants to cry. But he can't do either of that. He can only sit there and pray for it all to be over as soon as possible.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>The hours seem to drag on forever, and then the president -- the Governor -- appears to present him his crown. "Congratulations, Mr. Grimes," he says as he places the crown on Carl's head, "you had a very close game. I'm sure you are excited to go home."</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>There's something in his voice -- something unsettling, a threat, perhaps. Carl doesn't know, but what he does know is that this is the man that killed Daryl's brother, that could just as quickly kill Carl's own family without any kind of punishment, and therefore, he should not be messed with. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Carl stares right up into the Governor's eyes. "I am, sir," he says, "more than anything."</span>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>Upon boarding the train that will bring him back to 11, the first thing that Carl does is go straight to the window and wrap himself up in a thousand blankets. Well... there's not actually a thousand of them, but they're large and fluffy and comforting, and that's all Carl really cares about right now. It's kind of ironic, really -- seeing as Carl had been bundled up in a cocoon of blankets when the train had first been taking him to the Capitol as well. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>That's probably the only thing that's even somewhat similar about this whole thing. Even the interior of the train is different. Not by much, but things are a little fancier now -- the Capitol probably thought the other one was too 'bland' for two Victors or something weird like that. Whatever, Carl doesn't care. They can do whatever they want as long as it doesn't harm his family -- because, apparently, killing the winner's loved ones is something the Governor likes to do. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>It's kind of sad, really -- Carl won the Games to get back to his family when in reality, they probably would have been much safer if he ended up dying in the arena.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Carl pulls the blankets tighter around his body, sighing heavily. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He thinks of his mom and dad, who had watched their son be put into the arena. Who had watched as he killed and fought, who had watched as he somehow managed to win despite the odds stacked against him</span>
  <em>
    <span>. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Carl wonders how they felt through all of that -- maybe they're thrilled about him winning, or perhaps they're disgusted by the murderer their son has become. Especially after the coronation -- after seeing the cold-hearted killer that the Capitol painted him as. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Both reactions would be perfectly understandable. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He's put them all in danger just by living. Carl had made it out of the arena alive, but now the Capitol might use his family as leverage to keep him in line. He half hopes that they hate him for it because maybe then they would be safer. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Safer.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Is there even such thing as </span>
  <em>
    <span>safe </span>
  </em>
  <span>anymore?</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Carl doesn't know.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>It doesn’t feel like there is.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>The door to the compartment he sits in creaks open slowly.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Carl looks up, hand darting to the butterknife he had nicked from the dinner table earlier.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>But there's no need to be afraid -- it's only Daryl.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Carl lets his hand drop back down to his side, and he sighs, turning his head to face the window. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Carl tenses up a little bit as Daryl closes the door and approaches, but he doesn't turn to look at his mentor. Then, the sofa that Carl is sitting on dips beneath him for a moment as Daryl sits down. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>They sit in silence for a few minutes.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Finally, Daryl clears his throat, "Thinkin' bout home?" he asks. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Carl shrugs half-heartedly, but otherwise doesn't respond. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Daryl sighs again, and Carl tears his eye away from the window, watching as the man pulls something out from his pocket and holds it out for Carl to take. He doesn't reach out to grab it, though. Just staring at it in a mix of confusion and apprehension. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>It's a knife -- a swiss knife Carl thinks it's called. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Why is Daryl giving him a knife?</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Daryl clearly senses Carl's confusion. "T'defend yerself," the man says, "people... some of 'em ain't gonna be happy with you. 'Specially Elodie's family."</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"You think they'll try and attack me?" Carl asks, shocked.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"No," Daryl says, "but it happened to me. Don't really think anyone will try and attack you, but better be safe than sorry."</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Carl stares at Daryl for a long moment, trying to read the expression on his face. It's useless -- Daryl had schooled his face into a totally blank look, making it impossible to get an idea of what he was thinking. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>So with a sigh, Carl takes the knife, shoving it into the pockets of his pants.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Then, after a moment, Carl looks away.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He hears Daryl sigh again.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"Shouldn't you be jumpin' with joy or some shit?" The man asks dryly. "Thought you'd be more excited."</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Carl shrugs. "Just thinkin, I guess."</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He can feel Daryl's stare burning a hole into his side. "You think they're gonna hate you?" The man asks. Carl isn't surprised that he figured it out so quickly. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>But he doesn't say anything. There are a million things -- a million different thoughts -- bouncing around in Carl's head, but when he opens his mouth to speak, the words get stuck in his throat, and nothing comes out. So, instead, he shakes his head wordlessly. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"Carl," Daryl says, his voice surprisingly soft, and slowly, Carl turns to look at him, "you're family are good people from what I've seen - they ain't gonna hate you." </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"You don't know that," Carl whispers hoarsely. He then sniffles, feeling his eye begin to burn.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Daryl shrugs. "Maybe not. But if they do, just know you ain't alone."</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>It doesn't feel that way, Carl wants to say.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>But he doesn't. Instead, he stays quiet.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>His mom and dad are waiting there at the station when the Capitol train brings home a murderer wearing the empty husk of their son -- Daryl is standing next to Carl, a hand on his shoulder as the train finally comes to a slow. Carl's hands are shaking as they wait behind the closed double doors, and he bites his lower lip as his mind races with all sorts of possibilities. Daryl gives Carl's shoulder a comforting squeeze, but it does little to help the panic, apprehension, and fear racing through him.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>But then the door hisses open, and the relief that floods Carl at the sight of his parents waiting there for him melts away all of his worries.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"Carl!" His mom cries out the moment she sees him, and she sprints forward as he steps off the train, falling to her knees and wrapping Carl up in her arms. She cries into his hair, holding him tightly enough that she almost crushes him, and Carl stiffens immediately, his instincts screaming at him to run away. But then he feels his dad kneel down beside them to join the hug, and Carl slowly feels himself relaxing into the embrace. Tears well up in his eye, and a sniffle escapes from him. Soon enough, he's clinging as tightly to his parents as they are to him, sobbing uncontrollably into his mom's shirt. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn't know how long he's wrapped up in his parent's arms for -- and he doesn't really care. Because they're </span>
  <em>
    <span>here, </span>
  </em>
  <span>they don't hate him, they're all </span>
  <em>
    <span>alive, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and he just... He can hardly believe it all. Carl practically melts as his mom starts combing her fingers through his hair, and he hugs them both tighter, trying to ingrain this feeling into his mind forever. He buries his nose into his mom's shirt, and he swears that it carries the same scent from the morning that Carl had been reaped. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>After what must've been ten minutes or so, Carl forces himself to pull back from the hug. His mom immediately cups his face in her hands, staring down at him, her lips pursed, then her finger traces over the bandage covering his eye, and her face falters. "Oh, honey..." Michonne whispers, and Carl flinches back before he can stop himself. She leans forward, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "I'm so sorry."</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"S'not your fault," Carl whispers back, then, he glances around the almost empty train station, "where's Shane?"</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"He couldn't come," Rick says hoarsely, "he's workin' at the orchards."</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Right. The orchards.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Carl almost forgot about that.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"You're home," Rick then says, his voice quiet -- almost disbelieving. "You came back to us." </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Home.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>His dad's right.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He's home.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Carl takes in a shuddering breath.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Suddenly, his mom stills. Her eyes are pinned on something behind him, and when Carl turns around, he realizes it's Daryl. The man stands a few feet away, shifting around awkwardly as he watches the reunion that is now unfolding before him, and when Carl's mom climbs to her feet, eyes on Daryl, the man looks like he wants to be anywhere but here. Carl glances at his dad, who gives his arm a comforting squeeze.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"Daryl Dixon, right?" Michonne asks, taking a step forward. Her stomach looks more swollen than it had been last time he'd seen it -- though he should have expected that, it's been around two months, after all.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Daryl gives Michonne a long look, his face blank, before giving her a nod. A faint smile spreads across Michonne's face, and unexpectedly, she strides forward, enveloping Daryl into a tight hug. "Thank you," Carl hears her say, "for helping him."</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"Didn't do shit," Daryl says, and as Michonne steps back, he visibly relaxes, "yer kid is smart."</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Carl wants to protest to that -- Daryl </span>
  <em>
    <span>did </span>
  </em>
  <span>help him. Carl would have been dead if it weren't for him. But then his dad is hugging him again, and Carl takes in a shaky breath, relishing in the feel of his dad's arms around him -- something he never thought he would be able to experience ever again.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Daryl then brings them to the house in Victor's Village, which Carl's parents say that they have already started moving into. During the walk there, Carl is sandwiched between his parents, and he ducks his head as they start walking through town, already beginning to feel the stares burning into his back. He hears the townsfolk whispering, and Carl presses himself into his dad's side, trying not to flinch as some of the citizens of District 11 scatter at the sight of him: he even sees a woman pulling her children behind her -- hiding them from him.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Afraid of him. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Daryl had told him to expect that.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>It doesn't make things any easier.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>The house that now belongs to Carl and his family is large and ornate. The walls are painted white without a single dent nor scratch in them, and when they enter the house, Carl is taken aback by just how fancy it all is -- with plush furniture and bright paintings hung up on the walls. Carl stares at it all in a shocked haze of sorts, hardly able to believe that this was his new home. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It's huge!</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"Your room is upstairs," his dad says, gesturing to the stairs. "Across the hall from ours, and the nursery is set up in the one next to yours." </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Carl nods, fingers tracing the walls as he moves into the living room. He finds a spot to sit on the couch, and after a minute, his parents join him. Daryl leaves not long after, muttering something about going back to his own house. Carl doesn't try and stop him -- the man probably wants some time alone.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Slowly, Carl curls up at his dad's side, holding back a flinch as the man wraps an arm around him, pulling Carl closer. "How are you feeling?" He asks after a second or two, and Carl shrugs, not really knowing how to respond to a question like that.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Before the Games, he would have just responded with 'fine' and be done with it, but he knows that his parents will see right through that now. "Dunno," Carl murmurs, and his mom reaches out, gently combing her fingers through his hair, "I'm tired, I guess."</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Not exactly a lie. Carl doesn’t think he’s ever felt so exhausted in his life -- not even in the Games. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"You can sleep," his mom says softly.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Carl is quiet for a long moment. "Can you stay with me?" He asks finally, his voice pleading.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>His dad presses a kiss to his forehead, "of course."</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>Shane appears a few hours later, and when he sees Carl, the man's face melts into an expression of relief -- he reaches out to hug Carl, but upon seeing the tiny flinch it causes, decides not to. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"Hey champ," he says, instead. Then he snorts, running a hand through his hair, "guess you really are a champ now, huh?"</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Carl cracks the smallest of smiles. </span>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>Carl tries his best to slip back into his old life during the weeks that follow him coming home. He helps move some furniture -- which isn't a lot -- into their house in Victor's village, helps out in the orchards even if it isn't required anymore, helps set up his little sibling’s new room, and tries to keep his mind from going to his time in the Games. Tries to keep his thoughts from dwelling on the Capitol, on the Games -- on Beth and Benjamin. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>It's hard. Really hard.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He knows that his parents are worried about him -- Shane too. None of them say anything about it, but Carl can tell from the lingering stares and the strained smiles they give him. None of them ask outright, and no one mentions Beth or Benjamin or Ron or the hole in his face. The only times they ever talk about the eye is when one of them is changing the bandage, but other than that, they're pretty quiet about it -- and Carl is thankful for that.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Carl doesn't really eat much. Sometimes his mom, dad, Shane, or sometimes even Daryl will push a bowl of food in front of him, and Carl will eat maybe around half of it before shoving it away. It's not that he isn't hungry, because he is -- it's just that any food they give him tastes like ash in his mouth, and it makes him feel sick. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He wakes up screaming most nights from the ghosts that haunt his dreams -- each time his mom and dad come rushing in, and every time they bring him into their room where he'll sleep for the rest of the night. After a month of this, he kind of just moves into there permanently. He feels guilty about it, knowing his mom and dad probably want their space, but his parents quickly shut down any offers of Carl moving back to his room.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He comes down into the kitchen one night for a late-night snack, figuring that he might as well eat something if he doesn't want his mom to fuss about him in the morning. He opens the refrigerator, looking over his options -- there's bread, meat, cheese, fruits, vegetables, and countless other things Carl doesn't know the names of. Still not entirely used to picking out his food, he just takes a piece of bread and some butter and decides to just make toast. He slips the bread into the toaster (which Daryl had taught him how to use) and steps back, shoving his hands into the pockets of his pajama pants as he waits.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>A few minutes later, the bread is done, and Carl takes it out hurriedly, quickly slapping it onto a paper plate as his stomach gives a low rumble. He grabs a butterknife from one of the cabinets, starting to hum as he slathers the butter onto the toast. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He finds a seat at the dining room table -- unfortunately, he's still too short to sit correctly on the chairs, so his feet still hang a centimeter or two off the floor as he eats. Carl isn't really bothered by this all that much, and he stares up at the ceiling, mind wandering as he takes another bite of his toast. Because of this, Carl doesn't notice the footsteps approaching from behind until a hand lands on his shoulder. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"Hey there, ch-" Carl whirls around before the sentence can be finished, grabbing the unknown person's wrist in a tight grip and his knife in the other before twisting around, lunging onto the unknown person before they are able to even blink. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>They hit the floor hard, bringing the chair down with them. It hits Carl in the back, but he pays it no mind, shoving the knife Daryl had given him to the person's throat. But then, the face below him comes into focus, and Carl feels an icy chill race down his spine, followed by a feeling of horror.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"Shane?!" Carl scrambles back, quickly letting go of the man. He drops the knife and stares with horror in his eye as the man lets out a groan. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"Shit, kid," his godfather rasps, "that fuckin' hurt."</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>There's the sound of footsteps racing down the stairs, and Carl looks up right as his parents appear in the doorway -- both are still rumpled from sleep, but as they register the scene in front of them, they go on full alert. "Shane? Carl? What's going on?" His dad asks, and Shane snorts, rubbing his head and sitting up tentatively.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"Woke up and decided to go and grab a snack," Shane explains, "Carl was already down here - went to go ask what he was doing up, and he nearly slit my throat." Carl can deduce that the man is half-joking by his tone, but he's still much too shaken to find any humor in it. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm... I'm sorry-" Carl chokes out, and he quickly clambers to his feet, heart in his throat.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>His mom takes a step forward. "Carl-" she tries, but Carl starts shaking his head, tears coming to his eye. Blood is pounding like thunder in his ears, and he stumbles back as his vision begins to blur. He hears his dad say something, but then Carl's back hits the wall, and all rational thought leaves him. Suddenly, Carl is back in that field after being chased by the Careers -- Ron, Anne, and the other girl are standing in front of him while the cliff is on his other side. They're mocking him, and Ron is twirling his knife in between his fingers as he takes a step closer. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Carl can't help it -- he panics.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>With a strangled cry, he shoves past his parents and Shane and goes right to the front door. His hand finds the doorknob, and he swings it open without a second's hesitation, ignoring the bitter midnight chill that sweeps over him and running straight into the darkness of the night, his bare feet pounding against the cold pavement. He hears his parents shouting his name and the sound of Shane cursing, but even then, Carl doesn't stop running. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Eventually, he finds himself outside of Victor's Village, and then outside of the small town entirely -- he finds himself in the forest and then in one of the many lush meadows of District 11: like the one he had told Beth about. It's big and empty save for one large tree sitting in the middle of it all, which Carl promptly sits under, pressing his back to the trunk and curling up into a ball. He rests his forehead on his knees, letting the salty tears trail slowly down his cheeks. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>It's cold -- especially for tonight. And the fact that the only thing Carl is wearing is his pajamas probably doesn't help at all. Still, he doesn't move an inch. He just cries and cries and cries, sobbing and hiccuping and inwardly cursing himself as the seconds turn to minutes and the minutes turn to an hour, then two, then three. Even when his toes, fingers, and nose are numb, and his face is sore from crying, Carl doesn't get up. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>By the time the fourth hour ticks by, the sky has slowly begun to lighten, and Carl stills when he hears a voice calling his name. Carl recognizes it as his dad, and it makes his heart do a flip. But even though part of him is screaming to go and find his dad, he stays where he is. And when Carl hears his voice getting closer and closer to where he is, he doesn't even lift his head. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"Carl?!" There's the sound of footsteps, and Carl flinches back as something warm and heavy is draped onto his shoulders -- his dad's jacket. He forces himself to look up, blinking wearily as his dad's worried face swims into view. As soon as the man sees that Carl's awake, his worry melts into an expression of relief, and he makes a move to reach out -- to pull Carl into his arms, but he hesitates, clearly remembering what happened with Shane.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"M'sorry," Carl rasps out. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"Don't be," his dad tells him, and he reaches out again -- slower this time -- pressing a hand to Carl's cheek, "how long have you been sitting here for? You're freezing!" Without giving Carl a chance to respond, his dad leans down, scooping him up into his arms with seemingly little trouble. Carl lets out a low whimper, but he doesn't have the energy to even flinch away from the touch.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>His dad is quiet after that, just holding Carl close to his chest as he picks his way through the dense forest -- he can't remember the last time his dad actually carried him like this, and Carl doesn't bother trying to remember. The only thing he focuses on is his dad's beating heart, the warmth seeping from the man's skin, and the feeling that gradually returns to his fingers, toes, and nose. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"I didn't mean to hurt Shane," Carl whispers as they near the town. His dad hums absently, pressing a kiss to Carl's forehead.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"It's okay," he says, "we all know you didn't, but we were worried sick. Don't run out like that again, okay?" </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"Okay," Carl says weakly, and then... "I love you, Dad."</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>There's a pause, and when he fully opens his half-lidded eye, he sees his dad smiling softly. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>"I love you too, Carl."</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Healing</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When his dad finally carries Carl inside their house in Victor's Village, Carl's mom is sitting on the couch with Shane, who looks horribly solemn, running a hand through his hair. They look up as the door opens, and both of their faces light up when they see Carl curled up in Rick's arms. </p><p> </p><p>"Is he-" his mom starts, climbing to her feet, but she cuts herself off when Carl weakly lifts his head.</p><p> </p><p>"Hi..." Carl murmurs before letting his head drop back against his dad's shoulder, his gaze moves to Shane, who is also standing. "M'sorry for attacking you."</p><p> </p><p>His godfather's face softens. "It isn't your fault, Carl. If anything, it's mine. Should've known not to sneak up on you like that."</p><p> </p><p>Carl's mom strides right up to her husband, peering down at Carl through worried eyes. She presses a hand to his cheek and gasps. "You're freezing! Shane, go get me some blankets from upstairs. Rick, put him on the couch." Both oblige, Shane rushing off while Carl is slowly rested on the couch, still wrapped up in his dad's jacket. </p><p> </p><p>His mom is in full-on medical mode now. "Rick, go make some soup, preferably hot." Carl opens his mouth to protest, but his mom sends him a look, and he stays quiet. Seconds later, Shane comes rushing back down the stairs, a pile of blankets in his arms, and it doesn't take long at all for the two of them to get Carl bundled up in countless fluffy blankets. </p><p> </p><p>"Is this really necessary?" Carl asks, his voice slightly muffled. </p><p> </p><p>"Very necessary." His mom says, pressing a kiss to his forehead. She then turns to Shane. "Go find Daryl, tell him that Rick found Carl." Shane nods, rushing out the door. </p><p> </p><p>Carl, on the other hand, is slightly mortified. "Oh god, you got <em> Daryl </em>dragged into this!?" </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Due to his mom's urging, Carl is eventually sent back to school when it starts again. He doesn't particularly want to -- he was perfectly content with just staying at home. But his parents had insisted on it, and so one chilly Monday morning, Carl finds himself slowly treading down the street of the town, hands in his pocket as he nibbles at his lower lip. </p><p> </p><p>He doesn't really pass many other people -- most are still in their homes, seeing as it was still early in the morning -- but those who are still outside quickly scatter when they see him coming down the street. And when Carl sees Eliza -- one of the younger girls in his school who isn't exactly a friend but Carl often talks with between classes -- freeze like a deer when she spots him, Carl gets a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. It doesn't help that, seconds later, Eliza’s mother emerges from their home, and upon spotting Carl, gapes before quickly ushering her still petrified daughter back inside. </p><p> </p><p>Carl tries not to feel hurt about it. These people had every reason to fear him after what he did in the arena. But at the same time, Eliza had always been so kind to him -- to everyone! So to see her freeze in fear because of Carl hurts much more than he had expected it to.</p><p> </p><p>It only gets worse once he reaches school. Everyone avoids him like the plague, sending him fearful glances every time he comes into view and practically refusing to be anywhere near him. Even the teachers are wary of him -- the only one who seems unaffected by it all is Mr. Williams, his English teacher, who just smiles at him as he enters the classroom as he always does. The smile seems a little sadder than it usually is, but otherwise, it's the same. </p><p> </p><p>By the time school is over, Carl is on the verge of tears, and when he reaches his home in Victor's Village, he shoves past his parents and locks himself in his room, not coming out despite his parent's constant pleading. Carl stays in there for a full two days, and his parents ultimately decide to just homeschool him -- he prefers things that way. Carl is also aware of how much more relaxed his mom is whenever she has Carl in her sights, so he figures that homeschooling is a win-win solution for everyone.</p><p> </p><p>After that, Carl spends a lot of his time indoors: he had stopped going to work at the orchards, figuring that after what happened at school, no one would want him there either. Instead, he spends a lot of his time sucking up as much information as possible from the 'lessons' his parents give him, reading fiction books, drawing, and in all just tries to keep his mind from straying to the Games for too long. </p><p> </p><p>It doesn't really work.</p><p> </p><p>He had thought it would get easier to deal with as the months wore on, but it hadn't. They are just as fresh in his mind as they had been when he first woke up after winning. He had moved back into his room after what happened with Shane (they all protested against it, but Carl had insisted), and because of this, Carl still wakes up screaming most nights, though he learns to muffle his scream with his hands as to not stir his parents from their slumber. </p><p> </p><p>And so, Carl Grimes continues to be haunted by ghosts. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Twenty-one days.</p><p> </p><p>That's how long he'd been in the Games for.</p><p> </p><p>Twenty-one days.</p><p> </p><p>Almost a full three weeks.</p><p> </p><p>Carl's been recovering from it for five months.</p><p> </p><p>Five months of crying himself to sleep; five months of waking up screaming bloody murder. Five months of flinching away from every touch or fast movement; five months of hiding indoors because every time Carl ventured outside, he would be greeted with fearful glances and hateful glares by the people he once considered friends. Five months of nightmares that never seem to change or leave; five months of worried glances from his parents and Shane. Five months of panic attacks that always seem to come out of nowhere-</p><p> </p><p>It's hell.</p><p> </p><p>All of it -- the nightmares, the screaming, the constant paranoia -- it's just hell. </p><p> </p><p>He just wants it to end.</p><p> </p><p>Carl lays his head on one of the countless pillows piled up on his bed, puffing out his cheeks as the room slowly grows darker around him. He tries closing his eye to sleep, but it is quickly jolted back open when Beth's face swims into view -- her face slack and her eyes lifeless and empty. Jerkily, Carl rolls onto his other side, heaving a heavy sigh and drawing the blankets tighter around his body. After a few minutes of just lying there, he glances at the alarm clock set up on his bedside table: <em> 1:44 A.M. </em> His parents are probably fast asleep at this point -- it's a shame that Carl can't do the same. </p><p> </p><p>He just wants things to go back to the way they were before the Games. He wants to be able to walk around without people scrambling to get out of his way -- without anyone sending him fearful looks or hateful glares. He wants to be able to sleep without waking everyone up with his screaming, to have a full night's sleep without any nightmares -- he wants to be able to walk around without looking over his shoulder every two seconds in fear of someone attacking him.</p><p> </p><p>But no amount of wishing or hoping can do anything about this. Carl got reaped, he won the Games, he's killed people, and nothing he does can change that.</p><p> </p><p>It doesn't make things any easier.  </p><p> </p><p>He doesn't know how long he lays there for, all alone with his thoughts. But after a while, he can't take it any longer. Kicking the countless blankets back and sitting upright, Carl swings his legs over the side of the bed; the carpet of the bedroom is soft against his bare feet, which is something Carl still isn't quite used to. But he ignores it, getting off the bed and pulling the door open as quietly as he can. He starts padding down the hall, glancing nervously at the closed door of his parent's room. Hugging his arms to his chest, Carl hurries down the stairs. </p><p> </p><p>There's only one person that Carl knows who might understand how he's feeling. </p><p> </p><p>Carl slips on a pair of combat boots and grabs one of the many fluffy jackets from off the coathanger in the hall (another thing he isn't used to, having multiple changes of clothes). He opens the front door, closing it quietly behind him and padding down the steps of their small porch. He walks quickly, making his way to the only other occupied house across the street from his own. </p><p> </p><p>Carl darts up the steps, glancing over his shoulder anxiously before lifting his hand up and rapping his knuckles against the hard wood of the door. After a few seconds of nothing, Carl raises his hand up to knock again, but then the door is yanked open with a surprising amount of force, and Carl yelps as light spills out onto the empty street, nearly blinding him for a split second. </p><p> </p><p>"Kid?" Carl looks up, the tension seeping from his shoulders when he sees Daryl standing there. "Aren't y'supposed to be asleep or some shit?" The man's brows knit together, forming a deep crease between them as he stares down at Carl's shaking form. <em> When did I start shaking? </em>Carl finds himself wondering, but he doesn't care enough to think about it for long. </p><p> </p><p>"I couldn't sleep," Carl explains with a small shrug. Daryl steps to the side, making a motion for Carl to step inside, which he does without hesitation, "I--- Does it ever get any better?" he asks hurriedly, trying to hold back the tears that are now threatening to fall. "The restlessness, the paranoia, the nightmares - does any of it ever stop?" He folds his arms over his chest, ducking his head and taking in a shaky breath, struggling to hold himself together. He ran a finger over the faded scars on his hand -- the Capitol had offered to erase them for him, but he had declined. He doesn't really know why. Maybe Carl wants it as a reminder of the things he had done, of the people he had killed-</p><p> </p><p>Of the person he had become...</p><p> </p><p>Whatever the reason may or may not be, they're there, and they're not leaving any time soon -- just like the mental scars the Games had left on him. </p><p> </p><p>"No." Carl feels his heart do a flip at Daryl's answer, and when he looks up at the man, he can see the sadness and grief that now taints his face. "None of it really goes away. All the Victors cope in different ways." </p><p> </p><p>Carl stumbles, the words hitting him like a slap to the face, and he falls against the wall. "How?" He asks after a second, his voice pleading. "How do you deal with it?" </p><p> </p><p>"I drink," Daryl tells him, "others use morphling. Some smoke..." the man shakes his head, a grim smile painting his face, "there ain't really a good way to deal with it, kid." </p><p> </p><p>Carl pushes himself off the wall, blinking furiously to try and stop the tears from falling. His efforts are fruitless, and the tears come anyway. "I can't-" he chokes on a sob, "I can't handle it anymore. How am I supposed to live with it for the rest of my life?" He looks up at Daryl, eye wide and begging for some kind of response, but the man just shakes his head, a sad look crossing his face. </p><p> </p><p>"You'll find a way," Daryl says.</p><p> </p><p>Carl wants to believe him. More than anything. </p><p> </p><p>But he can't.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>He sneaks back into his room without any trouble, and if his parents notice the tear-tracks covering his face the next morning, none of them say anything about it. </p><p> </p><p>Daryl refuses to look Carl in the eye for a week after that. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The month following Carl's talk with Daryl goes by slowly. Carl tries to sleep as best he can but wakes up from nightmares most nights. He has taken to drawing whenever his nerves got the best of him: be it on his skin, on his clothes, on the dining table, or a piece of paper -- when he gets nervous, he just takes out a marker and starts doodling away; it doesn't help much with his paranoia or nightmares, but it does take his mind off of the Games and everything else for a little while. Even if it's only for a few minutes or an hour, the fact that it does anything at all is enough for him. Especially now.</p><p> </p><p>It's been six months since he has won the Games.</p><p> </p><p>Carl isn't stupid; he knows what that means. </p><p> </p><p>Still, he refuses to let it bother him. </p><p> </p><p>He does the schoolwork his parents assign to him, reads the countless books stacked on the various shelves in the house, and in all tries to keep his mind from wandering very far. Carl also eyes the way that his mom's stomach grows more and more swollen as the days wear on -- she looks like a balloon at this point (not that he'd say that out loud), and Carl knows that she's bound to give birth any day now. He prefers it to be sooner rather than later, though. </p><p> </p><p>"Dad? Where's my hairbrush?" Carl calls as he hops down the stairs in a much too big white shirt and blue pajama pants. Carl stops short once he reaches the dining room, his eye going wide when he takes in the scene before him. His mom and dad are where they usually sit. Shane's here too, which isn't unusual, but Daryl is also seated at the table, a scowl on his face as his eyes dart around the room, landing on Carl as soon as he enters. </p><p> </p><p>Carl blinks. "Oh."</p><p> </p><p>Daryl being in their house isn't exactly unusual either. Carl's mom has insisted on inviting the man over for dinner quite often, and while Daryl doesn't always accept the offers, he often comes over anyway to talk to Carl's dad, who he gets along with surprisingly well. Or sometimes he'll come over to help tutor Carl on things like math, history, or science -- things that his parents aren't as good at, so seeing him in the Grimes' house isn't much of a surprise. </p><p> </p><p>But today, something is different, his dad's face looks grim, his mom is sitting rigid in her seat, looking as if she had been carved from marble, and both Shane and Daryl look much angrier than he’s ever seen them -- a feat that Carl honestly didn't think was possible. Once Carl gets over his surprise, he gets a bad feeling in his stomach. His heart sinks when he realizes what this is. </p><p> </p><p>"The Victory Tour," Carl says, and whatever remains of his good mood vanishes when Daryl nods.</p><p> </p><p>"Unfortunately," says Daryl as he leans forward, resting his forearms on the table, "Princess and the rest of her team are coming in-" the man pauses, eyebrows furrowing in thought, "-three days, I believe. I suggest you prepare yourself, get a good night's sleep and all that shit." He gets up, brushing his hands on his pants and stalking right past Carl, who stays in the doorway of the dining room until he hears the sound of the front door opening and closing. </p><p> </p><p>"Carl..?" His mom tries, her face unsure.</p><p> </p><p>"You guys have dinner without me," Carl mutters, turning and heading back toward the staircase, ignoring his parent's protests as he rushes up the stairs and goes straight to his room. He goes straight to his bed, burying himself under the covers and trying not to cry as his mind starts spinning with the thoughts of the Games he had tried so hard to push back over the past six months.</p><p> </p><p>Carl pulls the covers tighter over his body, breathing shakily as his vision begins to blur. Icy tears trail down his cheek, and after so long of holding them back, he lets them fall. Carl shakes and shudders, and the tears soak into the blankets, but even then, he doesn't stop. Carl can't stop. </p><p> </p><p>He had known the Victory Tour would come sooner or later, and he had thought he had been prepared for it, but he had been wrong. Horribly so. He doesn't <em> want </em> to go back to the Capitol -- he doesn't <em> want </em>to face the families of the tributes he killed. He doesn't want to meet Benjamin or Beth's family because he knows they'll hate him, he doesn't want to leave his parents once again-</p><p> </p><p>Carl chokes on a sob, and his body convulses as more and more sobs tear through him. He wails and cries and weeps, for once not caring if his parents are able to hear him. Carl doesn't want to face Beth's father and sister, doesn't want to go to District 7 or District 1 or any other district that isn't 11. He wants to stay here at home. Carl wants to forget the Games ever even existed, that he ever even participated in them. Carl wants to be there for his little sibling's birth, wants to live his life without sparing another thought about the scars that the Games left behind: emotionally and physically. </p><p> </p><p>He wants to forget about the ghosts that haunt him, even if he deserves them. But he knows the likelihood of that ever happening is close to none. The Capitol would never let something like that occur.</p><p> </p><p>After what might have been an hour or two, his crying dies down to the occasional sniffle. And another hour or so later, there's a knock on his door. Carl ends up ignoring it, not having enough energy to even get up right now. He just buries his head further into his pillow as he takes in shallow breaths and tenses up as the door is pushed open anyway. </p><p> </p><p>There's the sound of footsteps, and Carl squeezes his eye shut and tries to push back the memory of Beth's smiling face from his mind. The mattress dips beneath him, and when Carl lifts his head and opens his eye, his mom is sitting there. </p><p> </p><p>Her hair is all bundled up on her head, and her eyes are wide and worried. "Hey there, peanut," she says, reaching out and gently carding a hand through Carl's hair. He tenses at first but soon finds himself relaxing into her touch. It's the one thing that hadn't changed since he had gotten back -- it's just as gentle as it always has been. "How are you feeling?"</p><p> </p><p>Her soft voice accompanied with the worry in her eyes and gentle touch is enough to shatter whatever remains of Carl's composure. He can't help it -- he bursts into tears once again. His mom doesn't waste a second in moving forward, pulling Carl's trembling form into her arms. She makes a faint shushing noise, combing a hand through his hair, and Carl clings to her, fisting his hands into the fabric of her shirt. </p><p> </p><p>"You're okay," his mom whispers, and he feels her pressing a kiss to his head, "you're going to be okay. We all are." Although her words are comforting, they only make him sob harder, his grip on her tightening. Thankfully she doesn't say anything about the fact he's soaking her shirt in his snot and tears.</p><p> </p><p>Carl shakes his head, hiccuping as more sobs escape from him. "I don't want to go--- I can't-" Carl chokes out between sobs, "They expect me to... to just go back to the Capitol, to go to the Districts of the kids I killed-" his voice falters -- it's the first time any of them has mentioned his time in the Games. "-and... and they... I don't--- I killed them," he cries out again, and his mom's arms tighten around him. </p><p> </p><p>"I know, baby," his mom whispers, pressing another kiss to his hair, "I know." </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>"Carl! Holy shit, kid, when the fuck did you get so tall?" Princess cries out as she bursts through the front door, the rest of her team trailing in after her. "What the hell have you been eating lately?"</p><p> </p><p>"The same thing as always," Carl drawls, but he can't help but grin at the sight of his stylist. Seeing Princess and Laura is probably the only thing about the Victory Tour he is looking forward to. "You didn't change at all," he comments, eyeing the pink fur jacket she's wearing, "you do wash that, right?" Princess scoffs, placing her hands on her hips and giving Carl a dirty look, but he can tell that there is no real heat behind it, so his grin only turns wider. </p><p> </p><p>"Course I wash it," Princess says, striding forward. She cuffs him over the head before promptly pulling him in for a hug, and Carl realizes seconds later that the action doesn't even cause him to flinch. The same cannot be said for the rest of the stylists, who crowd around him as soon as they get the chance, barking orders at one another and grabbing at him whenever they feel the need to move him around. </p><p> </p><p>One of the stylists grabs him by the chin, ignoring or just not noticing Carl's flinch and giving a disapproving hum as she stares at the hole in his face. "Princess! How are we supposed to cover <em> this?! </em>A bandage won't do - that'll mess up the whole look!" The woman actually looks on the verge of meltdown as she frets, and Princess gently pries her hands off of Carl's face, much to his relief.</p><p> </p><p>"Leave that to me, Cleo." Princess says kindly, patting the woman on the shoulder. "Frankie!" she barks, and a redheaded woman who Carl hadn't been able to recognize without all the Capitol accessories on her jumps nearly a foot into the air. Princess gives her an amused look, "bring me the second trunk - no, not that one - the blue one!" She turns back to Carl, sending him a quick grin, which he nervously returns.</p><p> </p><p>One of the stylists suggests doing something like they did during the parade with the flowers and such, which Carl honestly wouldn't mind at all, but then Princess points out that the outfit they used for that wouldn't fit with the cold-hearted murderer the Games had painted him as. She says this all so bluntly, and while Carl knows she means no harm by it, the words practically slap him in the face, leaving him with the bitter realization that he'll have to go back to that killer act in front of everyone. </p><p> </p><p>He isn't looking forward to that.</p><p> </p><p>In the end, Princess settles on a pitch black coat that has too many red accents of different shades to really be considered black. She then places a silver headband on his head before spending the next hour adorning him in a dizzying amount of make-up. When Princess finally lets him go for a quick bathroom break, he can hardly recognize the face that stares back at him in the mirror. </p><p> </p><p>He hasn't exactly gained back all of the weight he had lost in the Games, so his face is still somewhat gaunt. The stylists have used this to their advantage: sharpening the angles of his face, somehow giving his eye a more narrow shape, and have even covered the area surrounding his missing eye with various painted on flower designs to take the attention away from the gaping hole -- Carl's hair is pulled into a messy bun, and Princess has, once again, decorated his remaining eye in dark eyeshadow, much to his chagrin.  </p><p> </p><p>"What?! You look good in it!" Princess defends when he complains about it. "Plus, it's so much easier only having to worry about one eye. I don't have to try and make it even!"</p><p> </p><p>Carl has no idea what any of that means. Still, he kind of lets her do whatever -- grumbles a bit, sure, but he doesn't stop her. His attention is more drawn to his face in the mirror -- Carl looks nothing like the boy he had been before the Games -- nothing like the quiet and studious boy from almost a year ago, but he doesn't really look like a killer either, or a Victor. Carl looks haughty and bored -- <em> arrogant, </em>even. </p><p> </p><p>He hates it. He hates all of it.</p><p> </p><p>Carl hates the act he's been forced to play, hates the Capitol for not leaving him alone, Carl hates that he's going to have to leave his family every single year from now on, hates that he is, more likely than not, going to miss the birth of his little brother or sister because of this stupid tour. He just wants to be Carl Grimes, the son of Rick and Michonne Grimes and the quiet kid who loved climbing trees and joking around with other children -- but he can't be that as a Victor, not anymore. </p><p> </p><p>When Carl emerges from his room, Daryl is waiting downstairs with his parents and Shane. Upon seeing him, Carl's parents do a doubletake, Shane snorts, and Daryl just stares at him blankly, not a single emotion other than irritation showing on his scowling face. Carl's mentor doesn't look very different than he usually does, even after the stylists. He's wearing a dark blue vest and a white shirt (with sleeves, for once), but other than that, he looks exactly the same. Carl envies him for that. But there isn't much he can really do about it.</p><p> </p><p>And who knows, maybe next year Carl won't be dolled up nearly as much. </p><p> </p><p>Carl hugs his parents and Shane as tight as he can, trying to hold on for as long as possible. He doesn't even <em> want </em>to leave, but after a few minutes, Princess taps his arm and tells him that they have to go. She doesn't really look like she wants to interrupt the goodbyes, but she has to do her job, he supposes. So Carl lets go of his parents, says goodbye, and is promptly ushered out the door by Daryl, Princess, and the rest of the stylists. </p><p> </p><p>When they get to the train, Carl is greeted by Laura, but the woman doesn't smile much. They eat dinner, which consists of mashed potatoes, fish, and all sorts of other things that Carl still can't recognize. All of them are pretty quiet, and when everyone is nearly finished, Princess pulls out a stack of cards and hands it to him. </p><p> </p><p>"This is your speech," she says when Carl gives her a questioning look. Next to her, Daryl snorts loudly into his drink, ignoring Laura's disgusted glance. "Try and memorize it, and don't say anything that isn't written on there. I know you might be tempted to, but just don't."</p><p> </p><p>Carl starts flipping through the cards, a frown appearing on his face the moment he reads the first line. The more he reads, the deeper his frown gets, and he's not even halfway through when he throws the cards onto the table, much to Daryl's <em> obvious </em> amusement. "That's stupid," he declares, crossing his arms, "'We thank you for giving us your <em> children?' </em> Who writes that kind of thing?"</p><p> </p><p>"The Capitol," Daryl deadpans, stabbing at the chunk of meat that keeps falling from his fork whenever he tries to eat it. He peers over at Carl, a grim smile painting his face, "Or, more specifically, the Governor." </p><p> </p><p>"Do I <em> have </em>to read it?" Carl asks, his expression pained, and though he already knows what the answer is, he can't stop the disappointment and anger that forms when Daryl lets out a bitter laugh, shaking his head and shoveling a spoonful of mashed potatoes into his mouth. Laura gives him another disgusted look before turning to Carl.</p><p> </p><p>"I'm afraid you do," she answers, and she gives him a sad smile, "usually Victors are allowed to add to their speech - bits about the tributes they allied with and such - but the Governor made it clear that you're not even allowed to do that." </p><p> </p><p>Carl stares at her, confusion and anger thrumming through him. "What? Why?!" He cries out, enraged.</p><p> </p><p>"Because he's afraid," Daryl says, pushing away his plate.</p><p> </p><p>"Afraid?" Carl echos, eyebrows furrowing, "Afraid of what?"</p><p> </p><p>Daryl smiles, but this time, it isn't as grim. "Of a rebellion."</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em> (Unbeknownst to a majority of Panem, the beginning of a rebellion has already risen. Carl Grimes winning the Games has already caused a whirlwind of events that not even the Governor could have foreseen.) </em>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>District 12 is cold and bleak. Snow covers the ground, and the people there are eerily silent. When he comes onto the stage, no one says a word -- they don't even clap, and he doesn't expect them to. If anything, he's thankful for how quiet they are. "Citizens of District 12," he says, his voice echoing throughout the otherwise silent square, "I want to thank you for your hospitality." </p><p> </p><p>"I understand that you may have wished for your own tribute to be standing here, but I am truly grateful that you let me come nonetheless," he tells the angry yet silent crowd of District 10. None of them look at him, and he doesn't look at them either. It's not like they even had a choice on whether he came or not.</p><p> </p><p>District 9 isn't nearly as snowy as the previous two. It is wet, though, and as icy droplets of rain fall from high above, Carl has to hold back a shudder, trying to rid the images of the rushing river he had nearly drowned in from his mind. "Your home is gorgeous," he says in a monotone voice, "-and I am so lucky to be able to see it in person."</p><p> </p><p>By the time he reaches District 8, Carl is already yearning to be back in his warm bed back at home with his parents. But he also knows that he's nowhere near finished. "Your tributes fought hard in the Games, and I am honored to have been able to compete against them," he says blankly, and everyone here knows the words he speaks are lies. District 8's tributes weren't even able to make it past the Bloodbath -- Carl hadn't even said a word to any of them, much less compete against them.</p><p> </p><p>District 7 is the worst one by far. Benjamin's brother is left standing all alone on one of the platforms, not even eight years old by the looks of it, but there is no one else with him. Carl can hardly bring himself to look at Beth's family -- at her elderly father, who stares down at the ground, his face slack. Or her sister, who gives Carl a murderous glare while a young man, most likely Beth's future brother-in-law, rubs circles onto her back comfortingly. </p><p> </p><p>Carl can't stand it. He walks onto the stage right up to the microphone, but as he stares at them, he finds that he can't get the words out. He can't do it -- he won't just stand there and recite the same goddamn words he's been giving to everyone else. Especially not to the family of the girl who gave her life to save his, and definitely not to the little boy who lost his only living relative due to this cruel system. </p><p> </p><p>He takes in a deep breath, "I had a speech memorized for this," he says instead -- his first break from the script he had been given, "but I'm not going to use it." Immediately, all eyes snap onto him. Daryl's warning bounces around in his head continuously, but he can't bring himself to care anymore. Screw the Governor, screw the Capitol, and screw this so-called rebellion for not acting soon enough to save Ben and Beth's life.  </p><p> </p><p>Carl looks over at Ben's little brother, "Benjamin was..." he pauses, and the boy's head shoots up, meeting Carl's eyes with thinly veiled confusion and pain in them, "he was my friend. I may not have known him for long, but he was my friend nonetheless. He always had some kind of joke to lighten the mood with, even in the Games, and I remember thinking, 'how can he be so happy when he knows we might die?'" Carl looks down at his feet, taking in a shaky breath. "When we had our first training session, one of the Careers had shoved me to the ground. Benjamin was the only one to jump to my aid - ended up giving the Career a black eye." </p><p> </p><p>When he looks up again, he can see the small smile on the little blond's face. Carl wonders what his name is. "I guess what I'm trying to say is, your brother was a good person, and I am so sorry for what happened to him. I wish I could have done something." The boy gives Carl the tiniest of nods, and although he knows that it probably isn't one of forgiveness, it lifts a huge weight off his shoulders. </p><p> </p><p>He turns to Beth's family, his heart heavy. "I know that you probably all hate me, and you have a good reason to, but I just want you to know that I am sorry." Beth's father lifts his head to look at him, and her sister's glare turns a little less murderous. "I owe Beth my life. She saved me when she could have just left me. She could have won, and she should've, but she chose not to." In the corner of his eye, Carl can see Peacekeepers making their way through the crowd. He better hurry this up. "I see her everywhere I go: in the countless meadows of 11, in the flowers that grow in them, in the Mockingjay's that sing in the trees..." He forces himself to meet Beth's sister -- Maggie's -- gaze. She's staring at him sadly. "Beth was my friend too, and she should've come home. She told me about your wedding, and she seemed so excited whenever talking about it. I know she would have loved it."</p><p> </p><p>Maggie gives him a sad smile, and he can easily spy the tears streaming from her face. 'Thank you,' she mouths to him, but Carl isn't able to do or say anything else when the Peacekeepers finally make it onto the stage and start escorting him away. Daryl gives him a warning look once they're back on the train, but he doesn't try to scold him. Laura, on the other hand, won't let him forget it. </p><p> </p><p>He doesn't care. He doesn't even regret doing what he did. </p><p> </p><p>"I have been taught many good and valuable lessons from the Games," he says to District 6, and there are Peacekeepers stationed behind him to prevent him from breaking script again. Not that he will. "And I know that - thanks to your District and the tributes you gave - I will never forget them." The words are hollow and void, and they fall like ashes from his mouth.</p><p> </p><p>The people of District 5 all glare at him. He can't blame them at all, especially after what he did to their female tribute. "Your tributes tried their hardest to bring glory to you all - you should be proud of them." </p><p> </p><p>District 4 isn't much better. "I will never forget any of them, and I hope that none of you will either." It's sad because Carl's already forgotten half of the tribute's names, so this is the one part of the speech that he wishes is true. </p><p> </p><p>District 3 isn't as bad, though it isn't much better. He forgets pretty much the entirety of his time there, and he can't even recall standing up there on the stage for his speech, though he does watch a little bit of it later. </p><p> </p><p>Ron left behind a little brother, a father, and a mother. All three of them glare at Carl during the entirety of his speech. The girl from 2 doesn't have a family to glare at him, but it's just as awkward nonetheless, and with good reason too.</p><p> </p><p>"Panem today-" he says in District 1, and they all stare at him, their expressions as cold as stone, "Panem tomorrow. Panem forever. Thank you."</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em>(As soon as Carl's train had left District 7, a young, green-eyed woman brings a small orphaned boy into her home. After that, she, her father, and her fiance join the rising rebellion.) </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>(District 7 is the very first of the districts to rebel and start a revolution, though the rest of Panem won't know that for five more years.)</em>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The thing that Carl is looking forward to the least is going back to the Capitol. Even though he knows that it marks the very end of the Victory Tour -- which means he'll be able to go home soon -- it doesn't stop a pit of fear and dread from forming in his gut, one that only grows more and more as they get closer and closer to the shining heart of Panem. Carl doesn't want to go back to the city at all, though he knows perfectly well that isn't an option. Not anymore. He'll be forced to go back every single year as a mentor, so he better get used to it. </p><p> </p><p>It doesn't make him any less angry, though.</p><p> </p><p>Carl heaves a heavy sigh as the train enters the mountain tunnels, bathing the entire place in darkness for a few short seconds. The lights in the compartments turn on moments later -- as expected -- and he hears Daryl let out a string of curses from behind him at the sudden change in brightness. Laura starts scolding the man for swearing while Princess just laughs, but Carl ignores their antics and simply stares out of the window into the inky, seemingly neverending blackness. </p><p> </p><p>He picks at a loose string in one of the blankets he has wrapped around him, puffing out his cheeks in annoyance as the television flickers on, showing a reporter's smiling face. Carl rolls his eye as the reporter goes on and on about the Victory Tour, and that pit of dread in his stomach only grows larger when he realizes what's awaiting him at the Capitol. Hundreds of reporters, which means countless flashing lights, loud shouting and people grabbing at him... </p><p> </p><p>Carl has to hold back a shudder, and he moves away from the window right as the train hurtles back into the blinding sunlight that glimmers painfully off of the shining city. He goes over to where Daryl stands, peering out one of the windows at the cheering crowds with a look of annoyance on his still scowling face. "Just'a bunch of fucking birds," Carl hears the man mutter under his breath, and he can't help but agree with him. </p><p> </p><p>A large part of him had been expecting the train to pull in at the same station that it had when he had still been a tribute with the screaming crowds and flashing lights, but to Carl's great surprise and relief, the train pulls into a different one entirely. Though it looks the same, this one is almost entirely empty, with only a few Peacekeepers wandering around. Carl watches curiously as the stylist team pour out of the train like a flock of brightly colored birds, just as loud as a flock of birds, too. Princess and Laura run off after them a moment or two later. </p><p> </p><p>Carl follows Daryl to the exit of the train. The moment that he steps out, the door closes with a loud hiss, and although he had already known it was going to happen, Carl still jumps. He shifts uncomfortably, head swiveling around and his one eye observing the nearby Peacekeepers walking around the station. Thankfully, none of the armored soldiers pay the two Victors any mind, so Carl turns his attention back to Daryl. </p><p> </p><p>"So..." Carl says after a moment or two of silence, "what happens now?" </p><p> </p><p>Daryl peers down at him, his lips quirking up into an amused smirk. "What d'ya think is gonna happen?" </p><p> </p><p>Carl just stares at him for a few short seconds. "I don't know, you tell me. You're the mentor, after all."</p><p> </p><p>Daryl barks out a hoarse laugh before starting forward, making a quick gesture for Carl to follow him, which he does without complaint, though he does have to quicken his walk a tad to keep up with the man's much longer strides. He half expects to be brought to the Tribute Tower, but instead, Daryl brings him to one of the other towering buildings in the city, and Carl feels his heart leap high into his throat when he realizes just what this building is. He's seen it before on television, but he had never imagined he would get to actually see it in person. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Victor's Tower. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Victor's Tower is quite a well known building all across Panem. And how can it not be when it houses all of Panem's currently living Victors? The building itself is a literal legend, and it's big too -- at least five times larger than the Tribute Tower is. The lobby is mainly made of gold, and it nearly blinds Carl when he and Daryl first walk in. Gold and silver designs climb up the wall, but Carl's attention is immediately drawn to the various television screens hanging above, all showing clips of past Hunger Games.</p><p> </p><p>Carl tears his gaze away from the screens, instead letting them drift to the three large and ornate paintings pinned to one of the walls to the far left. Below them is a fireplace, and stationed around that fireplace are three small clusters of armchairs and sofas. Next to this supposed lounge area is an elevator of sorts, and that's where Daryl brings Carl. </p><p> </p><p>As soon as they enter, Daryl presses one of the many, <em> many </em>buttons, and the doors hiss shut almost instantly. Carl can hardly feel the elevator moving beneath them, but he knows that they are indeed moving. It's an unsettling notion, but Carl refuses to let that show. Even if it's only Daryl in the elevator with him, he wouldn't be surprised if there's a camera or something hidden inside as well. There is no way a place like Victor's Tower isn't decked in all kinds of security measures, but whether it's meant to keep the Victor's in or the citizens out is a mystery to him. </p><p> </p><p>Carl is snapped out of his thoughts at the faint dinging noise that sounds, followed by the elevator doors hissing open, showing a lobby-like area with a long hallway. Daryl doesn't waste a second in striding out, and Carl hurriedly begins to follow. His mentor brings him to a door at the far end of the hall, pulls out a keycard Carl hadn't been aware of him having, and swipes it under the doorknob. The door clicks open seconds later. Daryl takes a step back so Carl can peek inside. </p><p> </p><p>"This," Daryl explains, "is your room. It's on floor eleven, made for the Victors of District 11. I'm in the room across from yours if ya need anything. And take this," Daryl shoves the keycard into Carl's hand, "-keep that on you at all times. Don't give it to anyone that isn't me, Laura, or Princess. Got it?"</p><p> </p><p>"Got it," Carl says, concealing the keycard in the pocket of his dark blue jacket.</p><p> </p><p>"Good," Daryl grunts, "now go do whatever the hell ya want. Princess should be here in a couple hours t'get you ready." </p><p> </p><p>And with that, Daryl gives Carl a somewhat gentle shove, sending him stumbling through the open doorway. The door itself slams shut moments later, and Carl is left standing alone in the large, private room that is apparently all meant for him.</p><p> </p><p><em> This should be fun, </em>Carl thinks, his gaze wandering to the bowl of chocolates placed on the table. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Carl is wearing the same outfit Princess had dressed him in for the previous stops in the Victory Tour -- the only thing she has to redo is the flower designs on the right side of his face and the eyeshadow. At this point, Carl kind of just gives up on arguing about the whole makeup thing and lets Princess do whatever she wants. </p><p> </p><p>The applause Carl gets when he walks out onto the stage is near deafening. Somehow, he manages to ignore it and goes straight to the microphone, taking it from its stand so he can start his speech. Once again, this speech is prewritten for him -- probably by the Governor. Carl goes through it in a monotonous voice, for once thankful he doesn't have to try and show any kind of excitement to the audience. With the persona the Games built for him, it's a free pass to appear as bored as he wants without consequence.</p><p> </p><p>It feels like hours before Carl finally finishes up with his speech, though he knows it had only been a few minutes. Still, he doesn't waste time in hurrying down the steps of the platform the moment he's allowed to. Carl tries to find Daryl as soon as possible, but with how packed the room is, that task is next to impossible -- so, after a few minutes, Carl admits defeat and seats himself at one of the tables in the far back corner. Carl drinks the water that an Avox brings almost mechanically, eye darting around as he takes in the colorful crowd before him. </p><p> </p><p>He tries to catch sight of someone he knows: like Princess, Laura, Daryl, or maybe even Sherry. But all he sees are countless strangers that bustle around the room, laughing and eating and gossiping without a care in the world. Carl feels a trickle of unease start to form in his stomach the longer he sits there, but he doesn't want to get up either. So he stays where he is, praying that Daryl will end up finding him eventually and that no one will try to talk to him in the meantime. </p><p> </p><p>But of course, with his luck being the way it is, that doesn't happen.</p><p> </p><p>"Well, well, well - what's a pretty little thing like you doing sitting all alone?"</p><p> </p><p>Carl jumps at the unfamiliar voice, and his head shoots up almost instantly, his gaze landing on three older men standing a few feet from him. Carl's eye narrows dangerously -- how did they manage to sneak up on him like that? </p><p> </p><p>"Can I help you?" He snaps, his body already rippling with tension. He doesn't like the way that these guys look at him. </p><p> </p><p>"Now, now, don't be like that," One of the three men says -- one with tall stature and grey hair -- and he takes a step forward, pulling out the chair across from Carl's and taking a seat. He reaches out a hand as the other two men also sit down, "My name is Joe. These fine folks are Len and Dan-" he motions toward the chubby man and the lankier one respectively -- they both stare at Carl with a look of hunger in their eyes. Joe continues on, oblivious or just ignoring Carl's discomfort, "-I'm a little surprised you don't recognize us."</p><p> </p><p>What..?</p><p> </p><p>It takes Carl a few seconds to place the three. They're all old, none of them are good looking, and in all, they seem pretty forgettable -- so obviously, it takes him a bit. But then, it washes over Carl like a tidal wave. These men are Victors -- probably from Career Districts judging by the way they are dressed. Carl can't recall anything from any of their Games, but from the way that they're all staring at him, he knows that they aren't the same kind of Victor Daryl is. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Shit.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Carl brings his half-empty glass of water up to his lips, taking a sip of the icy liquid as he tries to appear nonchalant. "You won decades ago, long before I was born. Did you really expect me to recognize you at first glance?"</p><p> </p><p>Though all of them keep smiling, something in their expressions change. One of the men, the chubby one, reaches out, and he jumps back as the man brushes away the strands of hair falling in front of Carl's face -- or more specifically, the strands of hair covering the hole in his face. The chubby man doesn't seem at all offended by Carl's jumpiness. If anything, that only makes his grin widen. He turns to Joe. "He's a pretty little thing, even with the missing eye."</p><p> </p><p>Joe gives the man a long look before turning back to Carl. "We watched your Games, you know," he says as if all of Panem hadn't been forced to, "Gotta admit, I was a little surprised you ended up being the Victor."</p><p> </p><p>"A lot of people were," Carl responds curtly. His eye darts around the room, and he wonders if there is some way he can make an escape without appearing desperate. </p><p> </p><p>There isn't.</p><p> </p><p>Carl decides that won't stop him.</p><p> </p><p>He gets up abruptly. "I think we're done here," he says coolly, and he makes a move to walk away, but he should have known things wouldn't be that easy. As quick as a flash, Joe reaches out, snatching Carl's wrist up in a bruising grip before he can even make it two feet. Carl stumbles as the man yanks him back in, and when he looks back at Joe, he feels a shudder run down his spine at the look in his eyes.</p><p> </p><p>"Now, don't be like that," the man purrs, danger dripping from his every word, "sit back down." Joe motions toward the empty seat he had just vacated, and Carl knows that it isn't a suggestion. </p><p> </p><p>Still, Carl doesn't like it. "I think I'm good." </p><p> </p><p>"You sure? It's quite easy to get lost here in the Capitol, 'specially for those who haven't been here that long." Joe's smile turns predatory. A quick glance at the other two holds the same results. Carl's heart pounds like thunder in his chest and his mind is screaming at him to get the hell out of here. He tries pulling his wrist out of Joe's hold, but the man simply tightens his grip, his nails digging into Carl's skin. </p><p> </p><p><em> Now would be a lovely time for Daryl to show up, </em>Carl thinks, glancing over his shoulder at the crowd. None of them seem to notice what's going on in the corner. For once, Carl wishes they would. Even if it's a reporter, anything that would allow him to escape these other Victors would be fine by him. </p><p> </p><p>But in the end, his savior ends up being an entirely different person. </p><p> </p><p>"Carl, there you are!" Carl turns at the sound of yet another unfamiliar voice. A middle-aged woman with short gray hair and a dark blue dress approaches the corner table, a broad smile on her face. "I've been looking for you everywhere." The woman's gaze drifts over to Joe, who immediately drops Carl's hand, looking as if he'd just tasted something sour. </p><p> </p><p>Carl doesn't know who this woman even is, but when she pulls to a stop beside him and rests a hand on his shoulder, Carl lets her. "I got lost," He says meekly, deciding to play along, "you never told me Capitol parties were this crowded." He gives the stranger an accusing look, pretending to seem annoyed at her when really, all he can feel is an immense sense of relief. </p><p> </p><p>"You should have expected something like that - parties are meant to be crowded," the woman huffs, a smile crooking the corner of her mouth. But then, the expression on her face turns dangerous. "Were these three bothering you?" She peers over at the three men sitting around the table, and suddenly, Carl realizes he knows just who this woman is. </p><p> </p><p>"Now, Carol," Joe says calmly, raising up his hands in mock surrender as he slowly begins to rise to his feet, "we were just tryin' t'be friendly. The boy looked lonely, and we decided to give him some company. S'not our fault that he got lost." Judging by the dark look on her face, Carol did not believe a word Joe said. </p><p> </p><p>Carl doesn't want to be around these men any longer than he has to be. He tugs on the sleeve of Carol's dress, and when she looks down at him, he lets a childish pout cross his face. "You said you would show me where the dessert section is," he says, letting a hint of impatience trickle into his voice. </p><p> </p><p>"I did, didn't I?" Carol muses, though she definitely hadn't. She gives the three men a long look, her eyes narrowing. "Well, gentlemen, we'll be going. Enjoy the rest of the party." Her tone is icy, and the woman doesn't bother waiting for any kind of reply. With a hand on Carl's back, Carol turns abruptly and starts guiding him through the thick crowd. It's easier than it would've been for anyone else, for as soon as Carol and Carl are spotted, people scramble back to make a pathway for them.</p><p> </p><p>Carl can't help but sneak a few quick glances up at the woman as they walk. Carol Peletier, like Daryl, is a legend in Panem. Carl is surprised he hadn't been able to recognize her sooner. Born in District 9, reaped at age eighteen, winner of the 73rd Hunger Games after fooling everyone into believing she was just another weepy little girl who wouldn't be able to make it past the Bloodbath. But upon reaching the final three, she had taken a machete and hacked the remaining tributes into pieces. Pretty impressive, and while Carl should probably be more scared of her, he's more grateful than he is afraid. </p><p> </p><p>She brings him to one of the dessert tables at the far end of the room. "I know I didn't actually promise to bring you here, but I figured that a kid as young as you might enjoy it anyway. That's how my daughter is, at least." Carol says, picking up a plate and picking out one of the intricately decorated brownies from its tray. She passes it to Carl, who takes it eagerly.</p><p> </p><p>"I do like brownies," Carl says after taking a bite. The chocolate practically melts on his tongue. He peers up at Carol nervously, "thank you for that, by the way." </p><p> </p><p>The woman smiles. "Not a problem," she says. Seconds later, her expression shifts into something more serious, "but here's a word of advice from a fellow Victor, don't go anywhere near those three if you can help it." Carol shakes her head, glancing around at the crowd, most of whom are watching the two Victors with thinly-veiled interest in their eyes. None of them are within earshot, but still, Carol sighs, lowering her voice a tad. "They might be Victors, but if you saw what they all did to their fellow tributes during their Games..." her face twists into a grimace, "just don't go near them."</p><p> </p><p>"I won't," Carl assures her, "they freak me out anyway." </p><p> </p><p>"Good," Carol says, her lips quirking up into a smile, "Now, we should probably go find Daryl. Last I checked, he was on the verge of tearing the place down to find you." </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Oh. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Carl cringes.</p><p><br/>Oops.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>As Carl lies in bed a few nights later after boarding the train that would take him back to District 11, he finds that he cannot bring himself to actually close his eye and fall asleep. He knows that if he does, he will only be haunted by nightmares. Carl knows that isn't normal, and he knows that he isn't okay -- not after what happened in the arena -- but it makes him wonder about things that would be better left hidden away. It makes him think back to the times when his family hadn't been as broken as it now is -- back when Andre was still alive, long before the idea of him being reaped had ever occurred to any of them. </p><p> </p><p>It makes him think about what might have been if he hadn't been reaped. Where would he end up? What would happen to him and his family? Would he die of sickness or starvation? Would his little brother or sister be able to make it into the world? Would Carl be able to grow up and continue on with life as he always had? He doesn't know, and he knows that he won't ever know. </p><p> </p><p>The truth is, he had left any chance of a decent life behind the moment that Laura had called his name out at the reaping. Carl had stopped being the innocent kid he once had been the very moment he had first entered that arena, the moment he had first driven that knife into the girl from District 5's chest. He had given up on any hope of going back to normal the moment he had woken up after winning.</p><p> </p><p>Wishing and wondering wouldn't change any of that.</p><p> </p><p>It wouldn't change the past.</p><p> </p><p>It wouldn't change the fact he'd been reaped.</p><p> </p><p>It wouldn't change the fact he had taken people's lives.</p><p> </p><p>It wouldn't change the fact that he had won the Games.</p><p> </p><p>And it certainly wouldn't change the fact that Beth and Benjamin are gone.</p><p> </p><p>But knowing that doesn't stop him. It doesn't stop him from wanting something different -- it doesn't stop him from wishing for a different outcome. It doesn't stop him from feeling guilty for the lives he probably ruined by winning the Games. It doesn't stop people from scrambling to get out of his way -- doesn't stop them from staring at Carl with wide, fearful eyes or hateful glares. </p><p> </p><p>Carl tries not to resent anyone for it. Those people had every reason not to trust him. They had seen him kill four people, had seen the persona that he put up at the Capitol, and they don't know that it's an act. Carl knows that if he was in their shoes, he wouldn't trust himself either. Hell, he isn't even in their place, and he still doesn't trust himself. </p><p> </p><p>But it's also been a long few weeks of traveling throughout Panem, and Carl is tired. Bonebreakingly so. He knows that he will be haunted by nightmares, but even so, that doesn't stop him from finally letting his eye flutter shut. It doesn't stop his breathing from evening out as the darkness trickles in. And if he wakes up the next morning with a dark bag under his only remaining eye and tear tracks on his cheeks, no one utters a single word about it.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Carl stares down at the tiny face peering up at him from his mom's arms.</p><p> </p><p>He hadn't been sure of what exactly to expect upon returning home to District 11. While Carl had known that his mom would probably be giving birth sometime during the Victory Tour, he had been much too stressed to really think about it for long. So when he had been wrapped up into a tight bearhug by his dad before practically being dragged into the house and up the stairs, he had been understandably surprised -- now, he can only stare at the sight before him, completely speechless. </p><p> </p><p>His mom is sitting in the big bed in her and Rick's room. Her long dark hair had been pulled back into a messy bun, dreadlocks and all, and her dark cheeks are slightly flushed, but she's beaming proudly, and that smile only grows wider when Carl enters the room. He doesn't notice much of this, however. Instead, all of his attention is focused on the small bundle lying in her arms. </p><p> </p><p>"Carl," his dad says, a bright smile on his face, "come meet your new little sister."</p><p> </p><p>Sister.</p><p> </p><p>Carl has a sister.</p><p> </p><p>Just like Beth said he would.</p><p> </p><p>Carl takes in a shaky breath, trying not to wonder about the implications of that. He moves over to the side of the bed slowly, staring at the baby swaddled in a bright green blanket. "Woah..." </p><p> </p><p>His mom motions for Carl to come closer, and he does so without hesitation, climbing onto the bed carefully and curling up at her side. He reaches out a hand, trembling fingers brushing against the baby's soft cheek. His sister lets out a faint squeak, turning her head and blinking open her eyes. Carl feels a smile splitting across his face. "She's beautiful."</p><p> </p><p>"She is," Rick agrees, leaning over to peer down at his daughter's face. The man appears at least a decade younger with the way he is smiling. Carl realizes that this is the most relaxed he's seen his dad look in forever. </p><p> </p><p>"She was born four days after you left," Michonne says quietly, "a healthy little girl. She's a quiet one too, not like you and Andre were." Carl snorts, and he hears his dad bark out a laugh from behind him. Something crosses his mom's face, and she nudges Carl's shoulder. "Do you want to hold her?" </p><p> </p><p>Carl's gaze met hers, his remaining blue eye wide with surprise. "Can... can I?"</p><p> </p><p>His mom smiles, and there are tears in her eyes he notices after a moment. "Of course, but be careful - babies are fragile." She bends down to kiss the baby on the head before carefully transferring her into Carl's open arms. </p><p> </p><p>It's as if he's in a trance -- unable to look away. Any doubts he had before wash away, staring down at the little girl in his arms, he feels a rush of gratitude and relief sweep through him. A couple months ago, Carl had believed he would never get the chance to meet the baby growing in his mom's stomach, but less than a year later, here he is, and there's nowhere else he'd rather be. </p><p> </p><p>Carl adjusts his hold on her, freeing one of his hands and slowly reaching out to touch her cheek. Immediately, a tiny hand grips his finger, and sleepy blue eyes peer up at him. "What's her name?" He asks, not looking up. </p><p> </p><p>"Judith," his dad says, resting a hand on Carl's shoulder, "Judith Bethany Grimes." </p><p> </p><p>Carl's head snaps up</p><p> </p><p>He stares at his dad for a few seconds and then at his mom. "You... you named her after...?" His voice wobbles, and he feels his eye begin to well with tears. Though whether they are happy or sad tears, he isn't sure. </p><p> </p><p>"We did," his mom says, leaning forward to press a kiss to Carl's forehead, "we thought it was fitting. Judith Bethany Grimes, named after the girl who saved her big brother's life."</p><p> </p><p>Carl can't stop the tears that start to fall. He doesn't try to. "It's perfect," he chokes out, "thank you..." </p><p> </p><p>He looks down at the baby -- no, he looks down at Judith still lying in his arms. He smiles softly, leaning down and kissing her on the forehead. She gurgles, and before Carl can completely pull away, she has a tiny brown fist tangled in his hair. He laughs, and an unexpected feeling of warmth washes over him in seconds. </p><p> </p><p>"She likes you," his mom tells him, amusement coloring her tone, "She's been doing that to all of us. She likes grabbing hair."</p><p> </p><p>"She isn't the only one," his dad says, "you and Andre used to do it all the time. And just when I thought I would get a break from all the hair pulling, this one appears," the man gives a dramatic sigh, and both Carl and Michonne burst into laughter.</p><p> </p><p>Judith starts squirming in Carl's arms, letting go of his hair as her face starts to scrunch up. His mom reaches forward, taking Judith back into her arms just as the first cry escapes the baby. Carl watches as she starts shushing Judith, and distantly, he can recall his mom doing the same thing to Andre. The memories are faint, but Carl can still remember the feeling of love and contentment that had been thrumming through him at the time. He realizes that he feels that same contentment now.</p><p> </p><p>And when he looks down at his tiny little sister being rocked in his mom's arms, he knows that Beth would think she is perfect as well. So would Andre -- he would have loved to be an older brother. </p><p> </p><p>And as Carl sits there, he realizes that, for once, the crushing sense of loss and grief that is almost always present whenever he thinks of Beth, Benjamin, or Andre isn't there any longer. Instead, all he can feel is love, happiness, and a little bit of sadness.</p><p> </p><p>The thing is, he knows that his life isn't going to be easy after this. There will be more Hunger Games to follow, more children he will see die. There's a possible rebellion lingering on the horizon, but for now, that is far away, and Carl is free to be with his family. Free to be an older brother; free to heal from the trauma he had been left with, and maybe he won't be able to heal completely, but perhaps it can be to the point where it can make life a little bit simpler.</p><p> </p><p>"Welcome to the world, Judith Grimes," Carl whispers.</p><p> </p><p>With his dad's hand on his shoulder and his mom and sister sitting right in front of him, Carl's heart is unbelievably full. Sure, maybe the Capitol will never let him live an ordinary life, and perhaps the nightmares of what happened will always linger at the back of his mind, but right now, he is going to take this moment, and he is going to treasure it for as long as he can. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em>(And though he doesn't know it yet, the rebellion that should've happened years ago is finally stirring. After nearly a century of being tortured and oppressed, the districts of Panem have finally had enough. And all it took for everything to be set into motion was a blonde songbird and a one-eyed twelve-year-old boy.)</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>(All that was left to do was wait.)</em>
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